A  Hero  and  Some 
Of  her  Folk 

Bv  William  A.  Ouavle 


f* 

3B33 

Ui, 


!<}  06 


. 


3^33 


A  HERO  AND  SOME 
OTHER  FOLK 


BY 


WILLIAM  A.  QUAYLE 

Author  of  "THE  POET'S  POET  AND  OTHER  ESSAYS" 


THIRD  EDITION 


CINCINNATI :  JENNINGS  &  PYE 
NEW  YORKt  EATON  &  MAINS 


y OUGHT 


CIRCULATED 


COPYRIGHT,  1900,  BY 
THE  WESTERN  METH 
ODIST  BOOK  CONCERN 


•**•»• 


'T^O  think  some  one  will  care  to  listen  to  us,  and  to  be 
lieve  we  do  not  speak  to  vacant  air  but  to  listening 
hearts,  is  always  sweet.  That  friends  have  listened  to 
this  author 's  spoken  and  written  words  with  apparent 
gladness  emboldens  him  to  believe  they  will  give  him  hear 
ing  once  again. 

May  some  one's  eyes  be  lightened,  some  one's  burden 
be  lifted  from  his  shoulders  for  an  hour  of  rest,  some 
one1  s  landscape  grow  larger,  fairer,  and  more  fruitful, 
because  these  essays  have  been  written. 

WILLIAM  A.  QUAYLE. 


Contents 


PACE. 

L  JEAN  VALJEAN,    ................  7 

II.  SOME  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE,  .....  48 

III.  CALIBAN,  ...................  75 

IV.  WILLIAM  THE  SILENT,  .............  93 

V.  THE  ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY,  ....  142 

VI.  ICONOCLASM  IN  NiNETEENTH-CENTURY    LITERATURE,  l8l 

VII.  TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER,    ...........  198 

VIII.  THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS,   .   .*  ........  241 

IX.  KING  ARTHUR,   ......    .   .    ........  262 

X.  THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICTURES,    .........  292 

XL  THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE,  ........  299 

XII.  THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB,    .............  329 


A  Hero  and  Some  Other 
Folk 

16 

I 
Jean  Valjean 

THE  hero  is  not  a  luxury,  but  a  necessity. 
We  can  no  more  do  without  him  than  we 
can  do  without  the  sky.  Every  best  man  and 
woman  is  at  heart  a  hero-worshiper.  Emerson 
acutely  remarks  that  all  men  admire  Napoleon 
because  he  was  themselves  in  possibility.  They 
were  in  miniature  what  he  was  developed.  For 
a  like  though  nobler  reason,  all  men  love  heroes. 
They  are  ourselves  grown  tall,  puissant,  victorious, 
and  sprung  into  nobility,  worth,  service.  The  hero 
electrifies  the  world ;  he  is  the  lightning  of  the  soul, 
illuminating  our  sky,  clarifying  the  air,  making  it 
thereby  salubrious  and  delightful.  What  any  elect 
spirit  did,  inures  to  the  credit  of  us  all.  A  frag- 

7 


8          A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

ment  of  Lowell's  clarion  verse  may  stand  for  the 
biography  of  heroism : 

"When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad 

earth's  aching  breast 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east 

to  west; 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within 

him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem 

of  Time;" 

such  being  the  undeniable  result  and  history   of 
any  heroic  service. 

But  the  world's  hero  has  changed.  The  old 
hero  was  Ulysses,  or  Achilles,  or  y£neas.  The 
hero  of  Greek  literature  is  Ulysses,  as  JEneas  is 
in  Latin  literature.  But  to  our  modern  thought 
these  heroes  miss  of  being  heroic.  We  have  out 
grown  them  as  we  have  outgrown  dolls  and  mar 
bles.  To  be  frank,  we  do  not  admire  ^Eneas  nor 
Ulysses.  ^Eneas  wept  too  often  and  too  co 
piously.  He  impresses  us  as  a  big  cry-baby.  Of 
this  trinity  of  classic  heroes — Ulysses,  ./Eneas,  and 
Achilles — Ulysses  is  least  obnoxious.  This  state 
ment  is  cold  and  unsatisfactory,  and  apparently 
unappreciative,  but  it  is  candid  and  just.  Lodge,  in 
his  "Some  Accepted  Heroes,"  has  done  service 
in  rubbing  the  gilding  from  Achilles,  and  show 
ing  that  he  was  gaudy  and  cheap.  We  thought 


the  image  was  gold,  which  was,  in  fact,  thin  gilt. 
Achilles  sulks  in  his  tent,  while  Greek  armies  are 
thrown  back  defeated  from  the  Trojan  gates.  In 
nothing  is  he  admirable  save  that,  when  his  pout 
ing  fit  is  over  and  when  he  rushes  into  the  battle, 
he  has  might,  and  overbears  the  force  opposing 
him  as  a  wave  does  some  petty  obstacle.  But  no 
higher  quality  shines  in  his  conquest.  He  is  vain, 
brutal,  and  impervious  to  high  motive.  In 
^Eneas  one  can  find  little  attractive  save  his  filial 
regard.  He  bears  Anchises  on  his  shoulders  from 
toppling  Troy;  but  his  wanderings  constitute  an 
Odyssey  of  commonplaces,  or  chance,  or  mean 
ness.  No  one  can  doubt  Virgil  meant  to  create 
a  hero  of  commanding  proportions,  though  we, 
looking  at  him  from  this  far  remove,  find  him 
uninteresting,  unheroic,  and  vulgar;  and  why  the 
goddess  should  put  herself  out  to  allay  tempests 
in  his  behalf,  or  why  hostile  deities  should  be  dis 
turbed  to  tumble  seas  into  turbulence  for  such  a 
voyager,  is  a  query.  He  merits  neither  their 
wrath  nor  their  courtesy.  I  confess  to  liking 
heroes  of  the  old  Norse  mythology  better. 
They,  at  least,  did  not  cry  nor  grow  voluble  with 
words  when  obstacles  obstructed  the  march. 
They  possess  the  merit  of  tremendous  action. 
JEneas,  in  this  regard,  is  the  inferior  of  Achilles. 
Excuse  us  from  hero  worship,  if  ^Eneas  be 
hero.  In  this  old  company  of  heroes,  Ulysses  is 


io         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K 

easy  superior.  Yet  the  catalogue  of  his  virtues 
is  an  easy  task.  Achilles  was  a  huge  body,  asso 
ciated  with  little  brain,  and  had  no  symptom  of 
sagacity.  In  this  regard,  Ulysses  outranks  him, 
and  commands  our  respect.  He  has  diplomacy 
and  finesse.  He  is  not  simply  a  huge  frame, 
wrestling  men  down  because  his  bulk  surpasses 
theirs.  He  has  a  thrifty  mind.  He  is  the  man 
for  councils  of  war,  fitted  to  direct  with  easy 
mastery  of  superior  acumen.  His  fellow-warriors 
called  him  "crafty,"  because  he  was  brainy.  He 
was  schooled  in  stratagem,  by  which  he  became 
author  of  Ilium's  overthrow.  Ulysses  was  shrewd, 
brave,  balanced — possibly,  though  not  conclusively, 
patriotic — a  sort  of  Louis  XI,  so  far  as  we  may  form 
an  estimate,  but  no  more.  He  was  selfish,  immoral, 
barren  of  finer  instincts,  who  was  loved  by  his 
dog  and  by  Penelope,  though  for  no  reason  we 
can  discover.  Ten  years  he  fought  before  Troy, 
and  ten  years  he  tasted  the  irony  of  the  seas — in 
these  episodes  displaying  bravery  and  fortitude,  but 
no  homesick  love  for  Penelope,  who  waited  at  the 
tower  of  Ithaca  for  him,  a  picture  of  constancy 
sweet  enough  to  hang  on  the  palace  walls  of  all 
these  centuries.  We  do  not  think  to  love  Ulysses, 
nor  can  we  work  ourselves  up  to  the  point  of  ad 
miration;  and  he  is  the  best  hero  classic  Rome 
and  Greece  can  offer.  No !  Register,  as  the  mod 
ern  sense  of  the  classic  hero,  we  do  not  like  him. 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  n 

He  is  not  admirable,  yet  is  not  totally  lacking 
in  power  to  command  attention.  What  is  his 
quality  of  appeal  to  us?  This:  He  is  action;  and 
action  thrills  us.  The  old  hero  was,  in  general, 
brave  and  brilliant.  He  had  the  tornado's 
movement.  His  onset  redeems  him.  He  blus 
tered,  was  spectacular,  heartless,  and  did  not  guess 
the  meaning  of  purity;  but  he  was  warrior,  and 
the  world  enjoys  soldiers.  And  this  motley  hero 
has  been  attempted  in  our  own  days.  He  was 
archaic,  but  certain  have  attempted  to  make  him 
modern.  Byron's  Don  Juan  is  the  old  hero,  only 
lost  to  the  old  hero's  courage.  He  is  a  villain,  with 
not  sense  enough  to  understand  he  is  unattractive. 
He  is  a  libertine  at  large,  who  thinks  himself  a 
gentleman.  Don  Juan  is  as  immoral,  impervious 
to  honor,  and  as  villainous  as  the  Greek  gods.  The 
D'Artagnan  romances  have  attempted  the  old 
hero's  resuscitation.  The  movement  of  the 
"Three  Musketeers"  is  mechanical  rather  than 
human.  D'Artagnan's  honor  is  limited  to  his 
fealty  to  his  king.  He  has  no  more  sense  of  deli 
cacy  toward  women,  or  honor  for  them  as  women, 
than  Achilles  had.  Some  of  his  doings  are  too 
defamatory  to  be  thought  of,  much  less  men 
tioned.  No!  Excuse  me  from  D'Artagnan  and 
the  rest  of  Dumas'  heroes.  They  may  be 
French,  but  they  are  not  heroic.  About  Dumas' 
romances  there  is  a  gallop  which,  with  the  un- 


12         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

wary,  passes  for  action  and  art.  But  he  has  not, 
of  his  own  motion,  conceived  a  single  woman  who 
was  not  seduced  or  seducible,  nor  a  single  man 
who  was  not  a  libertine ;  for  "The  Son  of 
Porthros"  and  his  bride  are  not  of  Dumas'  cre 
ation.  He  is  not  open  to  the  charge  of  having 
drawn  the  picture  of  one  pure  man  or  woman. 
Zola  is  the  natural  goal  of  Dumas;  and  we  enjoy 
neither  the  route  nor  the  terminus.  Louis  XIV, 
Charles  II,  and  George  IV  are  modeled  after  the 
old  licentious  pretense  at  manhood,  but  we  may 
all  rejoice  that  they  deceive  nobody  now.  Our 
civilization  has  'outgrown  them,  and  will  not,  even 
in  second  childhood,  take  to  such  playthings. 

But  what  was  the  old  hero's  chief  failure? 
The  answer  is,  He  lacked  conscience.  Duty  had 
no  part  in  his  scheme  of  action,  nor  in  his  vo 
cabulary  of  word  or  thought.  Our  word  "virtue" 
is  the  bodily  importation  of  the  old  Roman  word 
"virtus,"  but  so  changed  in  meaning  that  the 
Romans  could  no  more  comprehend  it  than  they 
could  the  Copernican  theory  of  astronomy. 
With  them,  "virtus"  meant  strength — that  only — 
a  battle  term.  The  solitary  application  was  to 
fortitude  in  conflict.  With  us,  virtue  is  shot 
through  and  through  with  moral  quality,  as  a  gem 
is  shot  through  with  light,  and  monopolizes  the 
term  as  light  monopolizes  the  gem.  This  change 
is  radical  and  astonishing,  but  discloses  a  change 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  13 

which  has  revolutionized  the  world.  The  old  hero 
was  conscienceless — a  characteristic  apparent  in 
Greek  civilization.  What  Greek  patriot,  whether 
Themistocles  or  Demosthenes,  applied  conscience 
to  patriotism?  They  were  as  devoid  of  practical 
conscience  as  a  Metope  of  the  Parthenon  was  de 
void  of  life.  Patriotism  was  a  transient  sentiment. 
Demosthenes  could  become  dumb  in  the  presence 
of  Philip's  gold;  and  in  a  fit  of  pique  over  mis 
treatment  at  the  hands  of  his  brother-citizens, 
Themistocles  became  a  traitor,  and,  expatriated, 
dwelt  a  guest  at  the  Persian  court.  Strangely 
enough — and  it  is  passing  strange — the  most 
heroic  personality  in  Homer's  Iliad,  the  Greek's 
"Bible  of  heroisms,"  was  not  the  Atridse,  whether 
Agamemnon  or  Menelaus;  not  Ajax  nor  Achilles, 
nor  yet  Ulysses ;  but  was  Hector,  the  Trojan,  who 
appears  to  greater  advantage  as  hero  than  all  the 
Grecian  host.  And  Homer  was  a  Greek!  This 
is  strange  and  unaccountable  irony.  Say  once 
more,  the  old  hero's  lack  was  conscience.  He, 
like  his  gods  and  goddesses,  who  were  deified  in 
famies,  was  a  studied  impurity.  Jean  Valjean  is 
a  hero,  but  a  hero  of  a  new  type. 

Literature  is  a  sure  index  of  a  civilization. 
Who  cares  to  settle  in  his  mind  whether  the  world 
grows  better,  may  do  so  by  comparing  contem 
poraneous  literature  with  the  reading  of  other 
days.  "The  Heptameron,"  of  Margaret  of  Na- 


14         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

varre,  is  a  book  so  filthy  as  to  be  nauseating. 
That  people  could  read  it  from  inclination  is  un 
thinkable  ;  and  to  believe  that  a  woman  could  read 
it,  much  less  write  it,  taxes  too  sorely  our  credu 
lity.  In  truth,  this  work  did  not,  in  the  days  of 
its  origin,  shock  the  people's  sensibilities.  A 
woman  wrote  it,  and  she  a  sister  of  Francis  I  of 
France,  and  herself  Queen  of  Navarre,  and  a  pure 
woman.  And  her  contemporaries,  both  men  and 
women,  read  it  with  delight,  because  they  had 
parted  company  with  blushes  and  modesty.  Zola 
is  less  voluptuous  and  filthy  than  these  old  tales. 
Some  things  even  Zola  curtains.  Margaret  of  Na 
varre  tears  the  garments  from  the  bodies  of  men 
and  women,  and  looks  at  their  nude  sensuality 
smilingly.  Of  Boccaccio's  "Decameron,"  the  same 
general  observations  hold;  save  that  they  are  less 
filthy,  though  no  less  sensual.  In  the  era  pro 
ducing  these  tales,  witness  this  fact :  The  stories 
are  represented  as  told  by  a  company  of  gentle 
men  and  ladies,  the  reciter  being  sometimes  a 
man,  sometimes  a  woman;  the  place,  a  country 
villa,  whither  they  had  fled  to  escape  a  plague  then 
raging  in  Florence.  The  people,  so  solacing  them 
selves  in  retreat  from  a  plague  they  should  have 
striven  to  alleviate  by  their  presence  and  minis 
tries,  were  the  gentility  of  those  days,  representing 
the  better  order  of  society,  and  told  stories  which 
would  now  be  venal  if  told  by  vulgar  men  in  some 


JEAN  VALJEAN  15 

tavern  of  ill-repute.  That  Boccaccio  should  have 
reported  these  tales  as  emanating  from  such  a 
company  is  proof  positive  of  the  immodesty  of 
those  days,  whose  story  is  rehearsed  in  the 
"Decameron."  Rousseau's  "Confessions"  is  an 
other  book  showing  the  absence  of  current  mo 
rality  in  his  age.  Notwithstanding  George  Eliot's 
panegyric,  these  memoirs  are  the  production  of 
unlimited  conceit,  of  a  practical  absence  of  any 
moral  sensitiveness ;  and  while  Rousseau  could  not 
be  accused  of  being  sensual,  nor  amorous  and 
heartless  as  Goethe,  he  yet  shows  so  crude  a  moral 
state  as  to  render  him  unwholesome  to  any  per 
son  of  ordinary  morals  in  the  present  day.  His 
"Confessions,"  instead  of  being  naive,  strike  me 
as  being  distinctly  and  continuously  coarse.  A 
man  and  woman  who  could  give  their  children 
deliberately  to  be  farmed  out,  deserting  them  as 
an  animal  would  not,  and  this  with  no  sense  of 
loss  or  compunction,  nor  even  with  a  sense  of 
the  inhumanity  of  such  procedure — such  a  man 
and  woman  tell  us  how  free-love  can  degrade  a 
natively  virtuous  mind.  Such  was  Rousseau;  and 
his  "Confessions"  are  like  himself,  unblushing,  be 
cause  shameless.  These  books  reflect  their  re 
spective  ages,  and  are  happily  obsolete  now. 
Such  memoirs  and  fictions  in  our  day  are  unthink 
able  as  emanating  from  respectable  sources ;  and 
if  written  would  be  located  in  vile  haunts  in  the 


1 6         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

purlieus  of  civilization.  Gauged  by  such  a  test, 
the  world  is  seen  to  be  better,  and  immensely  bet 
ter.  We  have  sailed  out  of  sight  of  the  old  con 
tinent  of  coarse  thinking,  and  are  sailing  a  sea 
where  purity  of  thought  and  expression  impreg 
nate  the  air  like  odors.  The  old  hero,  with  his 
lewdness  and  rhodomontade,  is  excused  from  the 
stage.  We  have  had  enough  of  him.  Even  Cyrano 
de  Bergerac  is  so  out  of  keeping  with  the  new 
notion  of  the  heroic,  that  the  translator  of  the 
drama  must  apologize  for  his  hero's  swagger. 
We  love  his  worth,  though  despising  his  theatrical 
air  and  acts.  We  are  done  with  the  actor,  and 
want  the  man.  And  this  new  hero  is  proof  of  a 
new  life  in  the  soul,  and,  therefore,  more  welcome 
than  the  glad  surprise  of  the  first  meadow-lark's 
song  upon  the  brown  meadows  of  the  early  spring. 
A  reader  need  not  be  profound,  but  may 
be  superficial,  and  yet  discover  that  Jean  Valjean 
is  fashioned  after  the  likeness  of  Jesus.  Michael 
Angelo  did  not  more  certainly  model  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's  after  Brunelleschi's  dome  of  the 
Duonro  than  Hugo  has  modeled  his  Valjean 
after  Christ.  We  are  not  necessarily  aware  of  our 
selves,  nor  of  our  era,  until  something  discovers 
both  to  us,  as  we  do  not  certainly  know  sea  air 
when  we  feel  it.  I  doubt  if  most  men  would  rec 
ognize  the  tonic  of  sea  air  if  they  did  not  know 
the  sea  was  neighbor  to  them.  We  sight  the 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  17 

ocean,  and  then  know  the  air  is  flooded  with  a 
health  as  ample  as  the  seas  from  which  it  blows. 
So  we  can  not  know  our  intellectual  air  is  saturated 
with  Christ,  because  we  can  not  go  back.  We 
lack  contemporaneous  material  for  contrast.  We 
are,  ourselves,  a  part  of  the  age,  as  of  a  moving 
ship,  and  can  not  see  its  motion.  We  can  not 
realize  the  world's  yesterdays.  We  know  them, 
but  do  not  comprehend  them,  since  between  ap 
prehending  and  comprehending  an  epoch  lie  such 
wide  spaces.  "Quo  Vadis"  has  done  good  in  that 
it  has  popularized  a  realization  of  that  turpitude 
of  condition  into  which  Christianity  stepped  at  the 
morning  of  its  career;  for  no  lazar-house  is  so 
vile  as  the  Roman  civilization  when  Christianity 
began — God's  angel — to  trouble  that  cursed  pool. 
Christ  has  come  into  this  world's  affairs  unher 
alded,  as  the  morning  does  not  come;  for  who 
watches  the  eastern  lattices  can  see  the  morning 
star,  and  know  the  dawn  is  near.  Christ  has 
slipped  upon  the  world  as  a  tide  slips  up  the 
shores,  unnoted,  in  the  night;  and  because  we 
did  not  see  him  come,  did  not  hear  his  advent,  his 
presence  is  not  apparent.  Nothing  is  so  big  with 
joy  to  Christian  thought  as  the  absolute  omnipres 
ence  of  the  Christ  in  the  world's  life.  Stars  light 
their  torches  in  the  sky;  and  the  sky  is  wider  and 
higher  than  the  stars.  Christ  is  such  a  sky  to 
modern  civilization. 


i8        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

Plainly,  Jean  Valjean  is  meant  for  a  hero. 
Victor  Hugo  loves  heroes,  and  has  skill  and  in 
clination  to  create  them.  His  books  are  biog 
raphies  of  heroism  of  one  type  or  another.  No 
book  of  his  is  heroless.  In  this  attitude  he  dif 
fers  entirely  from  Thackeray  and  Hawthorne, 
neither  of  whom  is  particularly  enamored  of 
heroes.  Hawthorne's  romances  have  not,  in  the 
accepted  sense,  a  single  hero.  He  does  not  at 
tempt  building  a  character  of  central  worth.  He 
is  writing  a  drama,  not  constructing  a  hero.  In 
a  less  degree,  this  is  true  of  Thackeray.  He  truly 
loves  the  heroic,  and  on  occasion  depicts  it. 
Henry  Esmond  and  Colonel  Newcome  are 
mighty  men  of  worth,  but  are  exceptions  to 
Thackeray's  method.  He  pokes  fun  at  them  even. 
"Vanity  Fair"  he  terms  a  novel  without  a  hero. 
He  photographs  a  procession.  "The  Virginians" 
contains  no  character  which  can  aspire  to  cen- 
trality,  much  less  might.  He,  loving  heroes,  at 
tempts  concealing  his  passion,  and,  if  accused  of 
it,  denies  the  accusation.  After  reading  all  his 
writings,  no  one  could  for  a  moment  claim  that 
Thackeray  was  the  biographer  of  heroes.  He  is 
a  biographer  of  meanness,  and  times,  and  sham 
aristocracy  and  folks,  and  can,  when  he  cares  to 
do  so,  portray  heroism  lofty  as  tallest  mountains. 
With  Hugo  all  is  different.  He  will  do  nothing 
else  than  dream  and  depict  heroism  and  heroes. 


JEAN  VALJEAN  19 

He  loves  them  with  a  passion  fervent  as  desert 
heats.  His  pages  are  ablaze  with  them.  Some 
body  lifting  up  the  face,  and  facing  God  in  some 
mood  or  moment  of  briefer  or  longer  duration — 
this  is  Hugo's  method.  In  "Toilers  of  the  Sea," 
Galliatt,  by  almost  superhuman  effort,  and  phys 
ical  endurance  and  fortitude  and  fertility  in 
resource,  defeats  octopus  and  winds  and  rocks  and 
seas,  and  in  lonely  triumph  pilots  the  wreck  home — 
and  all  of  this  struggle  and  conquest  for  love! 
He  is  a  somber  hero,  but  a  hero  still,  with 
strength  like  the  strength  of  ten,  since  his  love 
is  as  the  love  of  a  legion.  The  power  to  do  is 
his,  and  the  nobility  to  surrender  the  woman  of 
his  love;  and  there  his  nobility  darkens  into 
stoicism,  and  he  waits  for  the  rising  tide,  watch 
ing  the  outgoing  ship  that  bears  his  heart  away 
unreservedly — waits,  only  eager  that  the  tide 
ingulf  him. 

In  "Ninety-Three,"  the  mother  of  the  children 
in  the  burning  tower  is  heroine.  In  "By  Order 
of  the  King,"  Dea  is  heroic,  and  spotless  as 
"Elaine,  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat ;"  and  Ursus,  a 
vagabond,  is  fatherhood  in  its  sweet  nobleness; 
and  Gwynplaine,  disfigured  and  deserted — a  little 
lad  set  ashore  upon  a  night  of  hurricane  and 
snow,  who,  finding  in  his  wanderings  a  babe  on 
her  dead  mother's  breast,  rescues  this  bit  of 
winter  storm-drift,  plodding  on  through  un- 


20         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

tracked  snows,  freezing,  but  no  more  thinking  to 
drop  his  burden  than  the  mother  thought  to  de 
sert  it — Gwynplaine  is  a  hero  for  whose  deed  an 
epic  is  fitting.  Quasimodo,  the  hunchback  of 
Notre  Dame,  found,  after  long  years,  holding  in 
his  skeleton  arms  a  bit  of  woman's  drapery  and 
a  woman's  skeleton — Quasimodo,  hideous,  her 
culean,  hungry-hearted,  tender,  a  hunchback,  yet 
a  lover  and  a  man — who  denies  to  Quasimodo 
a  hero's  laurels?  In  "Les  Miserables"  are  heroes 
not  a  few.  Gavroche,  that  green  leaf  blown  about 
Paris  streets;  Fantine,  the  mother;  Eponine,  the 
lover;  Bishop  Bienvenu,  the  Christian;  Jean  Val- 
jean,  the  man, — all  are  heroic  folk.  Our  hearts 
throb  as  we  look  at  them.  Gavroche,  the  lad, 
dances  by  as  though  blown  past  by  the  gale. 
Fantine,  shorn  of  her  locks  of  gold;  Fantine,  with 
her  bloody  lips,  because  her  teeth  have  been  sold 
to  purchase  medicine  for  her  sick  child — her 
child,  yet  a  child  of  shame;  Fantine,  her  mother's 
love  omnipotent,  lying  white,  wasted,  dying, 
expectantly  looking  toward  the  door,  with  her 
heart  beating  like  a  wild  bird,  beating  with  its 
wings  against  cage-bars,  anxious  for  escape; 
Fantine,  watching  for  her  child  Cossette,  watch 
ing  jn  vain,  but  watching;  Fantine,  dying,  glad 
because  Monsieur  Madeleine  has  promised  he  will 
care  for  Cossette  as  if  the  babe  were  his;  Fantine, 
dead,  with  her  face  turned  toward  the  door,  look- 


JEAN  VALJEAN  21 

ing  in  death  for  the  coming  of  her  child, — Fantine 
affects  us  like  tears  and  sobbing  set  to  music. 
Look  at  her ;  for  a  heroine  is  dead.  And  Eponine, 
with  the  gray  dawn  of  death  whitening  her 
cheeks  and  gasping,  "If — when — if  when,"  now 
silent,  for  she  is  choked  by  the  rush  of  blood 
and  stayed  from  speech  by  fierce  stabs  of  pain, 
but  continuing,  "When  I  am  dead — a  favor — a 
favor,  Monsieur  Marius  [silence  once  again  to 
wrestle  with  the  throes  of  death] — a  favor — a  favor 
when  I  am  dead  [now  her  speech  runs  like  fright 
ened  feet] ,  if  you  will  kiss  me ;  for  indeed,  Monsieur 
Marius,  I  think  I  loved  you  a  little — I — I  shall 
feel — your  kiss — in  death."  Lie  quiet  in  the  dark 
ening  night,  Eponine!  Would  you  might  have  a 
queen's  funeral,  since  you  have  shown  anew  the 
moving  miracle  of  woman's  love ! 

Bishop  Bienvenu  is  Hugo's  hero  as  saint;  and 
we  can  not  deny  him  beauty  such  as  those  "en- 
skied  and  sainted"  wear.  This  is  the  romaneist's 
tribute  to  a  minister  of  God ;  and  sweet  the  tribute 
is.  With  not  a  few,  the  bishop  is  chief  hero, 
next  to  Jean  Valjean.  He  is  redemptive,  like  the 
purchase  money  of  a  slave.  He  is  quixotic;  he  is 
not  balanced  always,  nor  always  wise;  but  he  falls 
on  the  side  of  Christianity  and  tenderness  and 
goodness  and  love — a  good  way  to  fall,  if  one  is 
to  fall  at  all.  We  love  the  bishop,  and  can  not 
help  it.  He  was  good  to  the  poor,  tender  to  the 


22        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<E 

erring,  illuminative  to  those  who  were  in  the 
moral  dark,  and  came  over  people  like  a  sunrise; 
crept  into  their  hearts  for  good,  as  a  child  creeps 
up  into  its  father's  arms,  and  nestles  there  like 
a  bird.  Surely  we  love  the  bishop.  He  is  a  hero 
saint.  To  be  near  him  was  to  be  neighborly  with 
heaven.  He  was  ever  minding  people  of  God. 
Is  there  any  such  office  in  earth  or  heaven?  To 
look  at  this  bishop  always  puts  our  heart  in  the 
mood  of  prayer,  and  what  helps  us  to  prayer  is 
a  celestial  benefit.  The  pertinent  fact  in  him  is, 
that  he  is  not  greatness,  but  goodness.  We  do 
not  think  of  greatness  when  we  see  him  or  hear 
him,  but  we  think  with  our  hearts  when  he  is  before 
our  eyes.  Goodness  is  more  marketable  than 
greatness,  and  more  necessary.  Goodness,  great 
ness!  Brilliancy  is  a  cheap  commodity  when  put 
on  the  counter  beside  goodness ;  and  Bishop  Bien- 
venu  is  a  romancer's  apotheosis  of  goodness,  and 
we  bless  him  for  this  deification. 

The  bishop  was  merchantman,  freighting  ships. 
His  wharves  are  wide,  his  fleet  is  great,  his  car 
goes  are  many.  Only  he  is  freighting  ships  for 
heaven.  No  bales  of  merchandise  nor  ingots  of 
iron,  but  souls  for  whom  Christ  died, — these  are 
his  cargoes;  and  had  you  asked  him,  "What 
work  to-day?"  a  smile  had  flooded  sunlight 
along  his  face  while  he  said,  "Freighting  souls 
with  God  to-day,  and  lading  cargoes  for  the 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  23 

skies."  This  is  royal  merchandise.  The  Doge 
of  Venice  annually  flung  a  ring  into  the  sea  as 
sign  of  Venice's  nuptials  with  the  Adriatic;  but 
Bishop  Bienvenu  each  day  wedded  himself  and 
the  world  to  heaven,  and  he  comes 

"O'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odor." 

Hugo  paints  with  sunset  tints  and  with  light 
ning's  lurid  light;  his  contrasts  are  fierce,  his 
backgrounds  are  often  as  black  as  a  rain-cloud. 
He  paints  with  the  mad  rush  of  a  Turner.  He 
is  fierce  in  hates  and  loves.  He  does  nothing  by 
moderation.  Calmness  does  not  belong  to  him. 
He  is  tempestuous  always;  but  tempests  are  mag 
nificent  and  purifying  to  the  air.  Hugo  is  paint 
ing,  and  painting  heroes,  and  his  hero  of  heroes 
is  Valjean.  Jean  Valjean  is  conscience.  In  Mac 
beth,  conscience  is  warring  and  retributive.  In 
Richard  III,  conscience,  stifled  in  waking,  speaks 
in  dreams,  and  is  menace,  like  a  sword  swung  by 
a  maniac's  hands.  In  Arthur  Dimmesdale,  con 
science  is  lacerative.  In  Jean  Valjean,  conscience 
is  regulative,  creative,  constructive.  Jean  Val 
jean  is  conscience,  and  conscience  is  king.  What 
the  classic  heroes  lacked,  Jean  Valjean  possesses. 

The  setting  of  this  character  is  entirely  mod 
ern.  "Les  Miserables"  is  a  story  of  the  city  and 


24         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  Fou~ 

of  poverty,  and  can  not  be  dissociated  from  them 
by  any  wrench  of  thought,  however  violent. 
Not  that  urban  life  or  poverty  are  new  elements 
in  the  school  of  suffering.  They  are  not  new, 
as  pain  is  not  new.  This,  is  the  difference.  In 
the  old  ages,  the  city  and  poverty  were  taken  as 
matters  of  course.  Comfort  was  not  a  classic 
consideration.  The  being  alive  to  conditions, 
sensitive  to  suffering,  eager  for  diminution  of  the 
world's  woes,  is  a  modern  thought,  a  Christ 
thought.  Sociology  is  an  application  of  Christ's 
teaching.  He  founded  this  science.  Rome  was 
the  monster  city  of  the  empire,  and  possibly  the 
monster  city  of  ancient  geography,  and  con 
tained  approximately,  at  its  most  populous  pe 
riod,  two  and  one  half  millions  of  inhabitants. 
Man  is  gregarious  as  the  flocks ;  he  seems  to  fear 
solitude,  and  flees  what  he  fears.  Certain  we  are 
that  in  America,  one  hundred  years  ago,  less  than 
one-thirtieth  of  the  population  was  in  cities;  now, 
about  one-third  is  in  city  communities ;  and 
European  cities  are  outgrowing  American  cities. 
In  other  words,  at  the  present  time,  cities  are 
growing  in  a  ratio  totally  disproportionate  to  the 
growth  of  •population ;  and  this,  not  in  the  New 
World  simply,  but  in  the  Old.  London  has  nearly 
as  many  citizens  as  England  had  in  the  time  of 
the  Puritan  Revolution.  Men  are  nucleating  in 
a  fashion  foreboding,  but  certain.  A  symptom  of 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  25 

the  city  life  is,  that  he  who  is  city  bred  knows 
no  life  apart  from  his  city.  He  belongs  to  it  as 
essentially  as  the  Venetian  belonged  to  Venice. 
The  community  is  a  veritable  part  of  the  man's 
self.  Note  this  in  Jean  Valjean.  It  never  occurs 
to  him  to  leave  Paris.  Had  he  been  a  tree  rooted 
in  the  soil  along  the  Seine,  he  had  not  been  more 
stationary.  Men  live,  suffer,  die,  and  hug  their 
ugly  tenements  as  parasites  of  these  dilapidations, 
and  draw  their  life-saps  from  such  a  decayed 
trunk.  This  human  instinct  for  association  is 
mighty  in  its  impulsion.  Not  a  few,  but  mul 
titudes,  prefer  to  be  hungry  and  cold  and  live 
in  a  city  to  living  with  abundance  of  food 
and  raiment  in  the  country.  Any  one  can  see 
this  at  his  alley  or  in  his  neighboring  street. 
It  is  one  of  the  latent  insanities  of  the  soul. 
The  city  is  a  live  wire,  and  will  not  let  go  of 
him  who  grasps  it.  There  is  a  stream  of  life  pour 
ing  into  cities,  but  no  stream  flowing  into  the 
country.  The  tide  runs  up  the  shore  and  back 
into  the  deep  seas;  not  so  these  human  tides. 
They  pour  into  the  Dead  Sea  basin  of  the  urban 
community.  Jean  Valjean  was  a  complete  mod 
ern  in  his  indissoluble  identification  with  the  city. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  his  was  the  criminal  in 
stinct,  superadded  to  the  gregarious  instinct, 
which  hides  in  a  city  labyrinth  rather  than  the 
forests  of  the  Amazon.  Yet,  taken  all  in  all,  he 


26         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

evidently  is  a  thorough  modern  in  his  urban  in 
stinct.  The  world  was  big,  and  he  had  gold  for 
passage  across  seas;  and  there  he  had,  in  reason, 
found  entire  safety;  but  such  a  thought  never 
entered  his  mind.  Paris  was  the  only  sea  he 
knew;  here  his  plans  for  escape  and  plans  for  life 
clung  tenaciously  as  a  dead  man's  hand. 

The  second  element  of  background  for  Jean 
Valjean  is  poverty.  The  people  of  this  drama  are 
named  "the  miserable  ones."  And  poverty  is 
modern  and  a  modern  question.  All  socialists, 
anarchists,  and  communists  talk  of  poverty;  this  is 
their  one  theme.  Superficial  social  reformers  make 
poverty  responsible  for  the  total  turpitude  of  men. 
Men  are  poor,  hence  criminal.  Jean  Valjean  is 
poor — miserably  poor;  sees  his  sister's  children 
hungry,  and  commits  crime,  is  a  thief;  becomes 
a  galley  slave  as  punitive  result.  Ergo,  poverty 
was  the  cause  of  crime,  and  poverty,  and  not  Val 
jean,  must  be  indicted;  so  runs  the  argument. 
This  conclusion  we  deny.  Let  us  consider. 
Poverty  is  not  unwholesome.  The  bulk  of  men 
are  poor,  and  always  have  been.  Poverty  is  no 
new  condition.  Man's  history  is  not  one  of  af 
fluence,  but  one  of  indigence.  This  is  a  patent 
fact.  But  a  state  of  lack  is  not  unwholesome,  but 
on  the  contrary  does  great  good.  Poverty  has  sup 
plied  the  world  with  most  of  the  kings  it  boasts  of. 
Palaces  have  not  cradled  the  kings  of  thought, 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  27 

service,  and  achievement.  What  greatest  poet  had 
luxury  for  a  father?  Name  one.  Poverty  is  the 
mother  of  kings.  Who  censures  poverty  censures 
the  home  from  whose  doors  have  passed  the  most 
illustrious  of  the  sons  of  men.  Christ's  was  a 
poverty  so  keen  and  so  parsimonious  that  Occi 
dentals  can  not  picture  it.  More,  current  social 
reformers  assume  that  the  poor  are  unhappy; 
though  if  such  reformers  would  cease  dreaming, 
and  learn  seeing,  they  would  reverse  their  creed. 
Riches  do  not  command  joy;  for  joy  is  not  a 
spring  rising  from  the  depths  where  gold  is 
found  and  gems  gathered.  Most  men  are  poor, 
and  most  men  are  happy,  or,  if  they  are  not,  they 
may  trace  their  sadness  to  sources  other  than  lack 
of  wealth.  The  best  riches  are  the  gifts  of  God, 
and  can  not  be  shut  off  by  any  sluicing;  the 
choicest  riches  of  the  soul,  such  as  knowledge  and 
usefulness  and  love  and  God,  are  not  subject  to 
the  tariff  of  gold.  Poverty,  we  conclude,  is  not 
in  itself  grievous.  Indeed,  there  are  in  poverty 
blessings  which  many  of  us  know,  and  from 
which  we  would  not  be  separated  without  keen 
regret.  But  penury  is  hard.  When  poverty 
pinches  like  winter's  night,  when  fuel  fails,  and 
hunger  is  our  company,  then  poverty  becomes 
harsh  and  unpalatable,  and  not  to  be  boasted  of; 
though  even  penury  has  spurred  many  a  sluggish 
life  to  conquering  moods.  When  a  man  lies  with 


28         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

his  face  to  the  wall,  paralytic,  helpless,  useless,  a 
burden  to  himself  and  others,  and  hears  the  rub 
of  his  wife  washing  for  a  livelihood — and  he  loves 
her  so;  took  her  to  his  home  in  her  fair  girlhood, 
when  her  beauty  bloomed  like  a  garden  of  roses, 
and  promised  to  keep  her,  and  now  she  works 
for  him  all  day  and  into  the  dark  night,  and  loves 
to;  but  he  turns  his  face  to  the  wall,  puts  his  one 
movable  hand  against  his  face,  sobs  so  that  his 
tears  wash  through  his  fingers  and  wet  his  pillow 
as  with  driving  rain, — then  poverty  is  pitiful.  Or, 
when  one  sees  his  children  hungry,  tattered,  with 
lean  faces  and  eyes  staring  as  with  constant  fear; 
sees  them  huddling  under  rags  or  cowering  at  a 
flicker  meant  for  flame, — then  poverty  is  hard ;  and 
then,  "The  poor  always  ye  have  with  you,"  said 
our  Christ,  which  remember  and  be  pitiful ! 

But  such  penury,  even,  does  not  require  crime. 
Valjean  became  a  criminal  from  poverty;  but  him 
self  felt  now,  as  the  days  slipped  from  his  life-store, 
that  crime  was  not  necessary.  Theft  is  bad  econom 
ics.  The  criminals  on  the  dockets  are  not  those 
pinched  with  poverty,  as  one  may  assure  himself 
if  he  gives  heed  to  criminal  dockets.  People  pre 
fer  crime  as  a  method  of  livelihood.  These  are 
criminals.  The  "artful  dodger,"  in  "Oliver 
Twist,"  is  a  picture  of  the  average  criminal. 
Honest  poverty  need  not  steal.  In  the  writer's 
own  city,  the  other  day,  a  man  accused  of  theft 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  29 

pleaded  his  children's  poverty  as  palliative  of  his 
crime;  but  in  that  city  was  abundant  help  for 
worthy  poverty.  That  man  lacked  an  absolute 
honesty.  He  and  his  could  have  been  fed  and 
clothed,  and  himself  maintained  his  manly  dignity 
and  uncorrupted  honesty.  To  blame  society  with 
criminality  is  a  current  method,  but  untrue  and 
unwise;  for  thus  we  will  multiply,  not  decimate, 
criminals.  The  honest  man  may  be  in  penury; 
but  he  will  have  help,  and  need  not  shelter  in  a 
jail.  Thus,  then,  these  two  items  of  modernity 
paint  background  for  Jean  Valjean's  portrait;  and 
in  Jean  Valjean,  To-day  has  found  a  voice. 

This  man  is  a  criminal  and  a  galley  slave,  with 
yellow  passport — his  name,  Jean  Valjean.  Hear 
his  story.  An  orphan;  a  half-sullen  lad,  reared 
by  his  sister;  sees  her  husband  dead  on  a  bed  of 
rags,  with  seven  orphans  clinging  in  sobs  to  the 
dead  hands.  Jean  Valjean  labors  to  feed  this  mot 
ley  company;  denies  himself  bread,  so  that  he 
may  slip  food  into  their  hands ;  has  moods  of 
stalwart  heroism ;  and  never  having  had  a  sweet 
heart — pity  him ! — toils  on,  hopeless,  under  a  sky 
robbed  of  blue  and  stars;  leading  a  life  plainly, 
wholly  exceptional,  and  out  of  work  in  a  winter 
when  he  was  a  trifle  past  twenty-six ;  hears  his  sis 
ter's  children  crying,  "Bread,  bread,  give  bread;" 
rises  in  sullen  acerbity;  smites  his  huge  fist 
through  a  baker's  window,  and  steals  a  loaf;  is 


30        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

arrested,  convicted,  sent  to  the  galleys,  and  herded 
with  galley  slaves;  attempts  repeated  escapes,  is 
retaken,  and  at  the  age  of  forty-six  shambles  out 
of  his  galley  slavery  with  a  yellow  passport,  certi 
fying  this  is  "a  very  dangerous  man ;"  and  with 
a  heart  on  which  brooding  has  written  with  its 
biting  stylus  the  story  of  what  he  believes  to  be 
his  wrongs,  Jean  Valjean,  bitter  as  gall  against 
society,  has  his  hands  ready,  aye,  eager,  to  strike, 
no  matter  whom.  Looked  at  askance,  turned  from 
the  hostel,  denied  courtesy,  food,  and  shelter,  the 
criminal  in  him  rushes  to  the  ascendant,  and  he 
thrusts  the  door  of  the  bishop's  house  open.  Lis 
ten,  he  is  speaking  now,  look  at  him !  The  bishop 
deals  with  him  tenderly,  as  a  Christian  ought ;  senti 
mentally,  but  scarcely  wisely.  He  has  sentimental 
ity  rather  than  sentiment  in  his  kindness ;  he  puts 
a  premium  on  Jean  Valjean  becoming  a  criminal 
again.  To  assume  everybody  to  be  good,  as  some 
philanthropists  do,  is  folly,  being  so  transparently 
false.  The  good  bishop — bless  him  for  his  good 
ness! — who  prays  God  daily  not  to  lead  him  into 
temptation,  why  does  he  lead  this  sullen  criminal 
into  temptation?  Reformatory  methods  should  be 
sane.  The  bishop's  methods  were  not  sane.  He 
meant  well,  but  did  not  quite  do  well.  Jean  Val 
jean,  sleeping  in  a  bed  of  comfort,  grows  restless, 
wakens,  rises,  steals  what  is  accessible,  flees,  is 
arrested,  brought  back,  is  exonerated  by  the  bish- 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  31 

op's  tenderness,  goes  out  free ;  steals  from  the  little 
Savoyard,  cries  after  the  retreating  lad  to  restore 
him  his  coin,  fails  to  bring  him  back;  fights  with 
self,  and  with  God's  good  help  rises  in  the  deep  dark 
of  night  from  the  bishop's  steps;  walks  out  into 

a  day  of  soul,  trudges  into  the  city  of  M ,  to 

which  he  finds  admission,  not  by  showing  the 
criminal's  yellow  passport,  but  by  the  passport  of 
heroism,  having  on  entrance  rescued  a  child  from 
a  burning  building;  becomes  a  citizen,  invents  a 
process  of  manufacturing  jet,  accumulates  a  for 
tune,  spends  it  lavishly  in  the  bettering  of  the  city 
where  his  riches  were  acquired;  is  benefactor  to 
employee  and  city,  and  is  called  "Monsieur;"  and 
after  repeated  refusals,  becomes  "Monsieur  the 
Mayor;"  gives  himself  up  as  a  criminal  to  save 
a  man  unjustly  accused,  is  returned  to  the  galleys 
for  the  theft  of  the  little  Savoyard's  forty-sous 
coin;  by  a  heroic  leap  from  the  yardarm,  escapes; 
seeks  and  finds  Cossette,  devotes  his  life  to  shel 
tering  and  loving  her;  runs  his  gauntlet  of  re 
peated  perils  with  Javert,  grows  steadily  in  hero 
ism,  and  sturdy,  invigorating  manhood;  dies  a 
hero  and  a  saint,  and  an  honor  to  human  kind, — 
such  is  Jean  Valj  can's  biography  in  meager  out 
line.  But  the  moon,  on  a  summer's  evening,  "a 
silver  crescent  gleaming  'mid  the  stars,"  appears 
hung  on  a  silver  cord  of  the  full  moon's  rim;  and, 
as  the  crescent  moon  is  not  the  burnished  silver 


32         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K' 

of  the  complete  circle,  so  no  outline  can  include 
the  white,  bewildering  light  of  this  heroic  soul. 
Jean  Valjean  is  the  biography  of  a  redeemed  life. 
The  worst  life  contains  the  elements  of  redemp 
tion,  as  words  contain  the  possibility  of  poetry. 
He  was  a  fallen,  vicious,  desperate  man;  and  from 
so  low  a  level,  he  and  God  conspired  to  lift  him 
to  the  levels  where  the  angels  live,  than  which 
a  resurrection  from  the  dead  is  no  more  potent  and 
blinding  miracle.  Instead  of  giving  this  book  the 
caption,  "Jean  Valjean/'  it  might  be  termed  the 
"History  of  the  Redemption  of  a  Soul ;"  and  such  a 
theme  is  worthy  the  study  of  this  wide  world  of 
women  and  of  men. 

Initial  in  this  redemptive  work  was  the  good 
bishop,  whose  words,  "Jean  Valjean,  my  brother, 
you  belong  no  longer  to  evil,  but  to  good,"  never 
lost  their  music  or  might  to  Valj  can's  spirit. 
Some  man  or  woman  stands  on  everybody's  road 
to  God.  And  Jean  Valjean,  with  the  bishop's 
words  sounding  in  his  ears — voices  that  will  not 
silence — goes  out  with  his  candlesticks,  goes 
trembling  out,  and  starts  on  his  anabasis  to  a  new 
life;  wandered  all  day  in  the  fields,  inhaled  the 
odors  of  a  few  late  flowers,  his  childhood  being 
thus  recalled;  and  when  the  sun  was  throwing 
mountain  shadows  behind  hillocks  and  pebbles,  as 
Jean  Valjean  sat  and  pondered  in  a  dumb  way, 
a  Savoyard  came  singing  on  his  way,  tossing  his 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  33 

bits  of  money  in  his  hands;  drops  a  forty-sous 
piece  near  Jean  Valjean,  who,  in  a  mood  of  in 
explicable  evil,  places  his  huge  foot  upon  it,  nor 
listened  to  the  child's  entreaty,  "My  piece,  mon 
sieur;"  and  eager  and  more  eager  grows  a  child 
whose  little  riches  were  invaded,  "My  piece,  my 
white  piece,  my  silver ;"  and  in  his  voice  are  tears — 
and  what  can  be  more  touching  than  a  child's 
voice  touched  with  tears?  "My  silver;"  and  the 
lad  shook  the  giant  by  the  collar  of  his  blouse — 
"I  want  my  silver,  my  forty-sous  piece" — and  be 
gan  to  cry.  A  little  lad  a-sobbing !  Jean  Valjean, 
you  who  for  so  many  years  "have  talked  but  little 
and  never  laughed;"  Jean  Valjean,,  pity  the  child; 
give  him  his  coin.  You  were  bought  of  the  bishop 
for  good.  But  in  terrible  voice  he  shouts:  "Who 
is  there?  You  here  yet?  You  had  better  take 
care  of  yourself;"  and  the  little  lad  runs,  breath 
less  and  sobbing.  Jean  Valjean  hears  his  sobbing, 
but  made  no  move  for  restitution  until  the  little 
Savoyard  has  passed  from  sight  and  hearing, 
when,  waking  as  from  some  stupor,  he  rises, 
cries  wildly  through  the  night,  "Petit  Gervais! 
Petit  Gervais!"  and  listened,  and — no  answer. 
Then  he  ran,  ran  toward  restitution.  Too  late !  too 
late!  "Petit  Gervais!  Petit  Gervais!  Petit 
Gervais!"  and,  to  a  priest  passing,  "Monsieur, 
have  you  seen  a  child  go  by — a  little  fellow — Petit 
Gervais  is  his  name?"  And  he  calls  him  again 
3 


34        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

through  the  empty  night;  and  the  lad  hears  him 
not.  There  is  no  response,  and  for  the  first  time 
since  he  passed  to  the  galleys,  Jean  Valj can's 
heart  swells,  and  he  bursts  into  tears;  for  he  was 
horrified  at  himself.  His  hardness  had  mastered 
him,  even  when  the  bishop's  tenderness  had 
thawed  his  winter  heart.  Jean  Valjean  was  now 
afraid  'of  himself,  which  is  where  moral  strength 
has  genesis.  He  goes  back — back  where?  No 
matter,  wait.  He  sees  in  his  thought — in  his 
thought  he  sees  the  bishop,  and  wept,  shed  hot 
tears,  wept  bitterly,  with  more  weakness  than  a 
woman,  with  more  terror  than  a  child,  and  his 
life  seemed  horrible;  and  he  walks — whither? 
No  matter.  But,  past  midnight,  the  stage-driver 
saw,  as  he  passed,  a  man  in  the  attitude  of  prayer, 
kneeling  upon  the  pavement  in  the  shadow  before 
the  bishop's  door;  and  should  you  have  spoken, 
"Jean  Valjean !"  he  would  not  have  answered  you. 
He  would  not  have  heard.  He  is  starting  on  a 
pilgrimage  of  manhood  toward  God.  He  saw  the 
bishop ;  now  he  sees  God,  and  here  is  hope ;  for 
so  is  God  the  secret  of  all  good  and  worth,  a 
thing  to  be  set  down  as  the  axiom  of  religion  and 
life.  A  conscience  long  dormant  is  now  become 
regnant.  Jean  Valjean  is  a  man  again! 

Goodness  begets  goodness.  He  climbed;  and 
the  mountain  air  and  azure  and  fountains  of  clear 
waters,  spouting  from  cliffs  of  snow  and  the  far 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  35 

altitudes,  fed  his  spirit.  God  and  he  kept  com 
pany,  and,  as  is  meet,  goodness  seemed  native 
to  him  as  lily  blooms  to  lily  stems.  God  was  his 
secret,  as  God  is  the  secret  of  us  all.  To  scan 
his  process  of  recovery  is  worth  while.  The 
bishop  reminded  him  of  God.  Goodness  and  love 
in  man  are  wings  to  help  us  soar  to  where  we 
see  that  service,  love,  and  goodness  are  in  God — 
see  that  God  is  good  and  God  is  love.  Seeing 
God,  Jean  Valjean  does  good.  Philanthropy  is 
native  to  him;  gentleness  seems  his  birthright; 
his  voice  is  low  and  sweet;  his  face — the  helpless 
look  to  it  for  help;  his  eyes  are  dreamy,  like  a 
poet's;  he  loves  books;  he  looks  not  manufac 
turer  so  much  as  he  looks  poet;  he  passes  good 
on  as  if  it  were  coin  to  be  handled ;  he  suffers  nor 
complains ;  his  silence  is  wide,  like  that  of  the  still 
night;  he  frequently  walks  alone  and  in  the 
country;  he  becomes  a  god  to  Fantine,  for  she 
had  spit  upon  him,  and  he  had  not  resented ;  he 
adopts  means  for  the  rescue  of  Cossette.  In  him, 
goodness  moves  finger  from  the  lips,  breaks 
silence,  and  becomes  articulate.  Jean  Valjean  is 
brave,  magnanimous,  of  sensitive  conscience, 
hungry-hearted,  is  possessed  of  the  instincts  of 
motherhood,  bears  being  misjudged  without  com 
plaint,  is  totally  forgetful  of  himself,  and  is  absolute 
in  his  loyalty  to  God — qualities  which  lift  him  into 
the  elect  life  of  manhood. 


36         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

Jean  Valjean  was  brave.  He  and  fear 
never  met.  The  solitary  fear  he  knew  was  fear 
of  himself,  and  lest  he  might  not  live  for  good 
as  the  bishop  had  bidden  him;  but  fear  from 
without  had  never  crossed  his  path.  His  was  the 
bravery  of  conscience.  His  strength  was  pro 
digious,  and  he  scrupled  not  to  use  it.  Self- 
sparing  was  no  trait  of  his  character.  Like  an 
other  hero  we  have  read  of,  he  would  "gladly 
spend  and  be  spent"  for  others,  and  bankrupt 
himself,  if  thereby  he  might  make  others  rich. 
There  is  a  physical  courage,  brilliant  as  a  shock 
of  armies,  which  feels  the  conflict  and  leaps  to 
it  as  the  storm-waves  leap  upon  the  sword  edges 
of  the  cliffs — a  courage  which  counts  no  odds. 
There  is  another  courage,  moral  rather  than 
physical.  Valjean  possessed  both,  with  moral 
courage  in  ascendency.  He  has  the  agility  and 
strength  sometimes  found  in  criminals.  He  is 
now  in  the  galleys  for  life.  One  day,  while  en 
gaged  in  furling  sail,  a  sailor  has  toppled  from 
the  yard;  but  in  falling  caught  a  rope,  but  hangs, 
swinging  violently,  like  some  mad  pendulum. 
The  height  is  dizzying.  Death  seems  certain, 
when  a  convict,  clad  in  red,  and  with  a  green  cap, 
runs  up  for  rescue,  lets  himself  down  alongside 
of  the  swaying  sailor,  now  in  the  last  extremity 
of  weakness,  and  ready  to  drop  like  a  winter  leaf. 
Valjean  (for  it  is  he)  oscillates  violently  to  and 


JEAN  VALJEAN  37 

fro,  while  the  throng  below  watch  breathlessly. 
His  peril  is  incredible,  but  his  is  a  bravery  which 
does  not  falter,  and  a  skill  which  equals  bravery. 
Valjean  is  swayed  in  the  wind  as  the  swaying 
sailor,  until  he  catches  him  in  his  arm,  makes 
him  fast  to  the  rope,  clambers  up,  reaches  the 
yard,  hauls  up  the  sailor,  and  carries  him  to  a 
place  of  safety.  And  the  throng  below,  breath 
less  till  now,  applauded  and  cried,  "This  man 
must  be  pardoned."  Then  it  is  that  he,  free  once 
more,  leaps  down — falls  from  the  dizzying 
height,  the  multitude  thinks — leaps  down  into 
the  seas,  and  wins  liberty.  Jean  Valjean  is 
heroic.  His  moral  courage,  which  is  courage  at 
its  noon,  is  discovered  best  in  his  rescue  of 
Fauchelevent,  old,  and  enemy — an  enmity  en 
gendered  by  Madeleine's  prosperity — to  Monsieur 
Madeleine.  The  old  man  has  fallen  under  his 
cart,  and  is  being  surely  crushed  to  death.  The 
mayor  joins  the  crowd  gathered  about  the  unfor 
tunate  car-man;  offers  a  rising  price  for  one  who 
will  go  under  the  cart  and  rescue  the  old  man. 
Javert  is  there — keen  of  eye  and  nostril  as  a 
vulture — and  Jean  Valjean  is  his  prey.  He  be 
lieves  the  mayor  to  be  Jean  Valjean,  and,  as 
the  mayor  urges  some  one  to  rescue  the  perishing 
man,  says,  with  speech  cold  as  breath  from  a 
glacier,  "I  have  known  but  one  man  who  was 
equal  to  this  task,  and  he  was  a  convict  and  in 


38         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

the  galleys."  The  old  man  moans,  "How  it 
crushes  me!"  and,  hearing  that  cry,  under  the 
cart  the  mayor  crawls;  and  while  those  beside 
hold  their  breath,  he,  lying  flat  under  the  weight, 
lifts  twice,  ineffectually,  and,  with  one  herculean 
effort,  lifts  again,  and  the  cart  slowly  rises,  and 
many  willing  hands  helping  from  without,  the  old 
man  is  saved;  and  Monsieur  Madeleine  arises, 
pale,  dripping  with  sweat,  garments  muddy  and 
torn,  while  the  old  man  whom  he  has  rescued 
kisses  his  knees  and  calls  him  the  good  God. 
And  the  mayor  looks  at  Javert  with  tranquil  eye, 
though  knowing  full  well  that  this  act  of  generous 
courage  in  the  rescue  of  an  enemy  has  doomed 
himself.  This  is  moral  courage  of  celestial  order. 

His  magnanimity  is  certainly  apparent, — in 
the  rescue  of  his  enemy,  Fauchelevent ;  in  his 
release  of  his  arch-enemy,  Javert;  in  his  presence 
within  the  barricade  to  protect  Marius,  who  had, 
as  a  lover,  robbed  him  of  the  one  blossom  that 
had  bloomed  in  the  garden  of  his  heart,  save  only 
the  passing  bishop  and  the  abiding  God.  No  petti 
ness  is  in  him.  He  loves  and  serves  after  a  fashion 
learned  of  Christ.  If  compelled  to  admire  his 
courage,  we  are  no  less  compelled  to  pay  hom 
age  to  his  magnanimity. 

His  was  a  hungry  heart.  Love  he  had  never 
known ;  he  had  never  had  a  sweetheart.  And  now 
all  pent-up  love  of  a  long  life  empties  its  precious 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  39 

ointment  on  the  head  of  Cossette.  He  was  all 
the  mother  she  ever  knew  or  needed  to  know. 
Heaven  made  her  rich  in  such  maternity  as  his. 
Mother  instinct  is  in  all  good  lives,  and  belongs 
to  man.  Maternity  and  paternity  are  met  in  the 
best  manhood.  The  tenderness  of  motherhood 
must  soften  a  man's  touch  to  daintiness,  like  an 
evening  wind's  caress,  before  fatherhood  is  per 
fect.  All  his  youthhood,  which  knew  not  any 
woman's  lips  to  kiss;  all  his  manhood,  which  had 
never  shared  a  hearth  with  wife  or  child, — all  this 
unused  tenderness  now  administers  to  the  wants 
of  this  orphan,  Cossette.  His  rescue  of  her  from 
the  Thenardiers  is  poetry  itself.  He  had  the  in 
stincts  of  a  gentleman.  The  doll  he  brought  her 
for  her  first  Christmas  gift  was  forerunner  of  a  thou 
sand  gifts  of  courtesy  and  love.  See,  too,  the  mourn 
ing  garments  he  brought  and  laid  beside  her  bed 
the  first  morning  he  brought  her  to  his  garret, 
and  watched  her  slumber  as  if  he  had  been  ap 
pointed  by  God  to  be  her  guardian  angel.  To 
him  life  henceforth  meant  Cossette.  He  was  her 
servant  always.  For  her  he  fought  for  his  life  as 
if  it  had  been  an  unutterable  good.  He  lost  him 
self,  which  is  the  very  crown  of  motherhood's  de 
votion.  He  was  himself  supplanted  in  her  affec 
tions  by  her  lover,  Marius,  and  his  heart  was 
stabbed  as  if  by  poisoned  daggers;  for  was  not 
Cossette  wife,  daughter,  sister,  brother,  mother, 


40        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

father,  friend — all?  But  if  his  heart  was  breaking, 
she  never  guessed  it.  He  hid  his  hurt,  though 
dying  of  heartbreak. 

Then,  too,  Jean  Valjean  is  misjudged,  and  by 
those  who  should  have  trusted  him  as  they 
trusted  God.  We  find  it  hard  to  be  patient  with 
Marius,  and  are  not  patient  with  Cossette.  Her 
selfishness  is  not  to  be  condoned.  Her  contrition 
and  her  tears  come  too  late.  Though  Valjean 
forgives  her,  we  do  not  forgive  her.  She  de 
serves  no  forgiveness.  Marius's  honor  was  of  the 
amateur  order,  lacking  depth  and  breadth.  He 
was  superficial,  judging  by  hearing  rather  than  by 
eyes  and  heart.  We  have  not  patience  to  linger 
with  his  wife  and  him,  but  push  past  them  to  the 
hero  spirit,  whom  they  have  not  eyes  to  see  nor 
hearts  to  understand.  Jean  Valjean  misjudged, 
and  by  Marius  and  Cossette!  Impossible!  Javert 
may  do  that;  Fantine,  not  knowing  him,  may  do 
that,  but  once  knowing  him  she  had  as  lief  dis 
trusted  day  to  bring  the  light  as  to  have  dis 
trusted  him.  Misjudged,  and  by  those  he  loved 
most,  suffered  for,  more  than  died  for!  Poor 
Valjean!  This  wakes  our  pity  and  our  tears. 
Before,  we  have  watched  him,  and  have  felt  the 
tug  of  battle  on  him;  now  the  mists  fall,  and  we 
put  our  hands  before  our  eyes  and  weep.  This 
saint  of  God  misjudged  by  those  for  whom  he 
lives!  Yet  this  is  no  solitary  pathos.  Were  all 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  41 

hearts'  history  known,  we  should  know  how  many 
died  misjudged.  All  Jean  Valjean  does  has  been 
misinterpreted.  We  distrust  more  and  more  cir 
cumstantial  evidence.  It  is  hideous.  No  jury 
ought  to  convict  a  man  on  evidence  of  circum 
stances.  Too  many  tragedies  have  been  enacted 
because  of  such.  Marius  thought  he  was  discern 
ing  and  of  a  sensitive  honor.  He  thought  it  evi 
dent  that  Jean  Valjean  had  slain  Javert,  and  had 
slain  Monsieur  Madeleine,  whose  fortune  he  has 
offered  as  Cossette's  marriage  portion.  Poor 
Jean  Valjean!  You  a  murderer,  a  marauder — 
you!  Marius  acts  with  frigid  honor.  Valjean 
will  not  live  with  Marius  and  Cossette,  being  too 
sensitive  therefor,  perceiving  himself  distrusted 
by  Marius,  but  comes  to  warm  his  hands  and 
heart  at  the  hearth  of  Cossette's  presence;  and  he 
is  stung  when  he  sees  no  fire  in  the  reception-room. 
The  omission  he  can  not  misinterpret.  He  goes 
again,  and  the  chairs  are  removed.  Marius  may 
have  honor,  but  his  honor  is  cruel,  like  an  inquisi 
tor  with  rack  and  thumbscrew ;  and  then  Jean 
Valjean  goes  no  more,  but  day  by  day  suns  his 
heart  by  going  far  enough  to  look  at  the  house 
where  Cossette  is — no  more;  then  his  eyes  are 
feverish  to  catch  sight  of  her  habitation  as 
parched  lips  drink  at  desert  springs.  Misjudged! 
O,  that  is  harder  to  bear  than  all  his  hurts! 

Then   we   will   not   say   of   Valjean,    "He   has 


42         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K. 

conscience,"  but  rather,  we  will  say,  "He  is  con 
science."  Valj  can's  struggle  with  conscience  is 
one  of  the  majestic  chapters  of  the  world's  litera 
ture,  presenting,  as  it  does,  the  worthiest  and  pro- 
foundest  study  of  Christian  conscience  given  by 
any  dramatist  since  Christ  opened  a  new  chapter 
for  conscience  in  the  soul.  Monsieur  Madeleine, 
the  mayor,  is  rich,  respected,  honored,  is  a  savior 
of  society,  sought  out  by  the  king  for  political  pre 
ferment.  One  shadow  tracks  him  like  a  night 
mare.  Javert  is  on  his  track,  instinct  serving  him 
for  reason.  At  last,  Javert  himself  thinks  Jean 
Valjean  has  been  found;  for  a  man  has  been  ar 
rested,  is  to  be  tried,  will  doubtless  be  convicted, 
seeing  evidence  is  damning.  Now,  Monsieur 

Madeleine,  mayor  of  M ,  your  fear  is  all  but 

ended.  An  anodyne  will  be  administered  to  your 
pain.  Jean  Valjean  has  known  many  a  struggle. 
He  thought  his  fiercest  battles  fought;  but  all  his 
yesterdays  of  conflict  are  as  play  contests  and 
sham  battles  matched  with  this.  Honor,  useful 
ness,  long  years  of  service,  love,  guardianship  of 
Cossette,  and  fealty  to  a  promise  given  a  dying 
mother — all  beckon  to  him.  He  is  theirs ;  and 
has  he  not  suffered  enough?  More  than  enough. 
Let  this  man  alone,  that  is  all.  Let  him  alone! 
He  sees  it.  Joy  shouts  in  his  heart,  "Javert  will 
leave  me  in  quiet."  "Let  us  not  interfere  with 
God;"  and  his  resolution  is  formed.  But  con- 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  43 

science  looks  into  his  face.  Ha!  the  bishop,  too, 
is  beside  him.  Conscience*  speaks,  and  is  saying, 
"Let  the  real  Valjean  go  and  declare  himself." 
This  is  duty.  Conscience  speaks,  and  his  words 
are  terrible,  "Go,  declare  thyself."  Jean  Valj can's 
sin  is  following  him.  That  evening  he  had 
robbed  Petit  Gervais;  therefore  he  is  imperiled. 
Sin  finds  man  out.  But  the  fight  thickens,  and 
Valjean  thinks  to  destroy  the  mementos  of  his 
past,  and  looks  fearfully  toward  the  door,  bolted 
as  it  is,  and  gathers  from  a  secret  closet  his  old 
blue  blouse,  an  old  pair  of  trousers,  an  old 
haversack,  and  a  great  thorn  stick,  and  inconti 
nently  flings  them  into  the  flames.  Then,  noticing 
the  silver  candlesticks,  the  bishop's  gifts,  "These, 
too,  must  be  destroyed,"  he  says,  and  takes  them 
in  his  hands,  and  stirs  the  fire  with  one  of  the 
candlesticks,  when  he  hears  a  voice  clamoring, 
"Jean  Valjean!  Jean  Valjean!  Jean  Valjean!" 
Conscience  and  a  battle,  but  the  battle  was  not 
lost;  for  you  see  him  in  the  prisoners'  dock,  de 
claring,  "I  am  Jean  Valjean;"  and  those  of  the 
court  dissenting,  he  persisted,  declared  his  recog 
nition  of  some  galley  prisoners,  urging  still,.  "I 
am  Jean  Valjean;  you  see  clearly  that  I  am  Jean 
Valjean;"  and  those  who  saw  and  heard  him  were 
dazed ;  and  he  said :  "All  who  are  here  think  me 
worthy  of  pity,  do  you  not?  Do  you  not?  Great 
God!  When  I  think  of  what  I  was  on  the  point 


44         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

of  doing,  I  think  myself  worthy  of  envy;"  and 
he  was  gone.  And  next,  Javert  is  seizing  him 
fiercely,  brutally,  imperiously,  as  a  criminal  for 
whom  there  is  no  regard.  With  this  struggle 
of  conscience  and  its  consequent  victory,  "The 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade"  becomes  tawdry 
and  garish.  The  sight  moves  us  as  the  majestic 
minstrelsy  of  seas  in  tempest.  No  wonder  that 
they  who  looked  at  Valjean,  as  he  stood  de- 
. claring  himself  to  be  the  real  Valjean,  were  blinded 
with  a  great  light. 

And  his  heart  is  so  hungry,  and  his  loyalty  to 
God  so  urgent  and  so  conquering.  Jean  Valjean 
has  suffered  much.  Ulysses,  buffeted  by  wars 
and  stormy  seas,  has  had  a  life  of  calm  as  com 
pared  with  this  new  hero.  Ulysses'  battles  were 
from  without;  Valjean's  battles  were  from  within. 
But  if  he  has  suffered  greatly,  he  has  also  been 
greatly  blessed.  Struggle  for  goodness  against  sin 
is  its  own  reward.  We  do  not  give  all  and  get 
nothing.  There  are  compensations.  Recom 
pense  of  reward  pursues  goodness  as  foam  a  ves 
sel's  track.  If  Jean  Valjean  loved  Cossette  with 
a  passion  such  as  the  angels  know;  if  she  was  his 
sun,  and  made  the  spring,  there  was  a  sense  in 
which  Cossette  helped  Valjean.  There  was  re 
sponse,  not  so  much  in  the  return  of  love  as  in 
that  he  loved  her;  and  his  love  for  her  helped  him 
in  his  dark  hours,  helped  him  when  he  needed 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  45 

help  the  most,  helped  him  on  with  God.  He  needs 
her  to  love,  as  our  eyes  need  the  fair  flowers  and 
the  blue  sky.  His  life  was  not  empty,  and  God 
had  not  left  himself  without  witness  in  Jean  Val- 
jean's  life ;  for  he  had  had  his  love  for  Cossette. 

But  he  is  bereft.  Old  age  springs  on  him  sud 
denly,  as  Javert  had  done  in  other  days.  He  has, 
apparently  without  provocation,  passed  from 
strength  to  decrepitude.  Since  he  sees  Cossette 
no  more,  he  has  grown  gray,  stooped,  decrepit. 
There  is  no  morning  now,  since  he  does  not  see 
Cossetie.  You  have  seen  him  walking  to  the 
corner  to  catch  sight  of  her  house.  How  feeble 
he  is !  Another  day,  walking  her  way,  but  not 
so  far;  and  the  next,  and  the  next,  walking;  but 
the  last  day  he  goes  scarce  beyond  his  own 
threshold.  And  now  he  can  not  go  down  the 
stairs ;  now  he  is  in  his  own  lonely  room,  alone. 
He  sees  death  camping  in  his  silent  chamber,  but 
feels  no  fright.  No,  no !  rather, 

"Death,  like  a  friend's  voice  from  a  distant  field 
Approaching,  called. 

For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See,  through  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall, 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despaired  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all." 

But  Cossette,  Cossette !  To  see  her  once,  just 
once,  only  once !  To  touch  her  hand — O  that  were 


46         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

heaven!  But  he  says  to  his  heart,  "I  shall  not 
touch  her  hand,  and  I  shall  not  see  her  face — 
no  more,  no  more!"  And  the  little  garments  he 
brought  her  when  he  took  her  from  her  slavery 
with  the  Thenardiers,  there  they  are  upon  his  bed, 
where  he  can  touch  them,  as  if  they  were  black 
tresses  of  the  woman  he  had  loved  and  lost.  The 
bishop's  candlesticks  are  lit.  He  is  about  to  die, 
and  writes  in  his  poor,  sprawling  fashion  to 
Cossette — writes  to  her.  He  fronts  her  always,  as 
the  hills  front  the  dawn.  He  ceases,  and  sobs 
like  a  breaking  heart.  O !  "She  is  a  smile  that 
has  passed  over  me.  I  shall  never  see  her  again !" 
And  the  door  dashes  open;  Marius  and  Cossette 
are  come.  Joy,  joy  to  the  old  heart!  Jean  Val- 
jean  thinks  it  is  heaven's  morning.  Marius  has 
discovered  that  Jean  Valjean  is  not  his  murderer, 
but  his  savior;  that  he  has,  at  imminent  peril  of 
his  life,  through  the  long,  oozy  quagmire  of  the 
sewer,  with  his  giant  strength,  borne  him  across 
the  city,  saved  him ;  and  now,  too  late,  Marius 
began  to  see  in  Jean  Valjean  "a  strangely  lofty 
and  saddened  form,"  and  has  come  to  take  this 
great  heart  home.  But  God  will  do  that  himself. 
Jean  Valjean  is  dying.  He  looks  at  Cossette  as 
if  he  would  take  a  look  which  would  endure 
through  eternity,  kisses  a  fold  of  her  garment,  and 
half  articulates,  "It — is — nothing  to  die;"  then 
suddenly  rises,  walks  to  the  wall,  brings  back  a 


JEAN  VAIJEAN  47 

crucifix,  lays  it  near  his  hand.  "The  Great 
Martyr,"  he  says;  fondles  Marius  and  Cossette; 
sobs  to  Cossette,  "Not  to  see  you  broke  my 
heart;"  croons  to  himself,  "You  love  me;"  puts 
his  hands  upon  their  heads  in  a  caress,  saying, 
"I  do  not  see  clearly  now."  Later  he  half  whis 
pered,  "I  see  a  light!"  And  a  man  and  woman 
are  raining  kisses  on  a  dead  man's  hands.  And 
on  that  blank  stone,  over  a  nameless  grave  in  the 
cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise,  let  some  angel  sculp 
tor  chisel,  "Here  lies  Jean  Valjean,  Hero." 


n 

Some  Words  on  Loving  Shakespeare 

WHAT  a  soul  wants  is  to  feel  itself  of  serv 
ice.  Life's  chances  seem  drunk  up  like  the 
dews  from  morning  flowers  in  burning  summer 
times.  To  risk  literary  adventure  after  these  cen 
turies  of  thinking  and  saying  (and  such  thinking 
and  such  saying!),  requires  the  audacity  of  a 
simpleton  or  the  boldness  of  the  old  discoverers. 
Every  patch  of  literary  ground  seems  occupied,  as 
those  fertile  valleys  lifting  from  sea-levels  along 
a  shining  stream  to  the  far  hills  and  fair.V  So  much 
has  been  said  on  Shakespeare,  and  he  has  stung 
men  to  such  profound  and  fertile  sayings,  that  to 
speak  of  him  seems  an  impertinence,  fl  have 
never  seen  an  essay  on  Shakespeare  I  have  not 
run  to  read.  Whoever  holds  the  cup,  I  will  drain 
it  dry,  if  filled  with  wine  from  this  rare  vintage/) 
Practically  all  our  great  writers  have  dreamed  of 
him,  and  told  their  dreams ;  and  many  a  writer 
who  makes  no  claim  to  greatness  has  done  the 
same.  Some  people  you  can  not  keep  your  eyes 
off  of;  and  of  these  Shakespeare  is  one.  Who 
has  n't  talked  of  him  ?  When  Alfred  Tennyson  lay 

48 


SOME;  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE     49 

dying  in  the  white  moonlight,  his  son  tells  how 
he  held  the  play  of  Cymbeline  in  his  dying 
hands,  as  was  fitting,  seeing  he  had  held  it  in  his 
living  hands  through  many  golden  years.  Than 
this  dying  tribute,  Shakespeare  never  had  more 
gracious  compliment  paid  his  genius.  Who  passes 
Shakespeare  in  his  library  without  a  caress  of  eye 
or  hand?  I  would  apologize  if  I  were  guilty  of 
such  a  breach  of  literary  etiquette.  Boswell's 
Johnson  edited  Shakespeare;  and  Charles  Lamb 
and  Goethe  and  DeQuincey  and  Coleridge  and 
Taine  and  Lowell  and  Carlyle  and  Emerson  have 
written  of  him,  some  of  them  greatly.  (\  wonder 
Macaulay  kept  hands  from  him,  but  probably  be 
cause  he  was  the  historian  of  action  rather  than 
letters;  and  after  reading  what  these  have  said, 
how  can  one  be  but  silenced?) 

But  it  has  seemed  to  me  that,  while  there  was 
a  wilderness  of  writing  about  Shakespeare  as  a 
genius  and  as  a  whole,  there  was  co-operative 
dearth  of  writings  on  the  individual  dramas. 
Authors  content  themselves  with  writing  on  the 
dramatist,  and  neglect  to  write  upon  the  dramas. 
If  this  be  true,  may  there  not  be  an  unoccupied 
plot  of  ground  where  a  late-comer  may  pitch  tent, 
as  under  the  hemlocks  by  some  babbling  water, 
and  feel  himself  in  some  real  way  proprietary?  I 
have  discovered  a  growing  feeling  in  my  thought 
that  enough  has  not  been  said,  and  can  not  be 
4 


50        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

said,  about  the  Macbeths  and  Tempests  and  Lears 
and  Hamlets. 

Shakespeare  is  too  massive  to  be  discussed 
in  an  hour.  One  essay  will  not  suffice  for  him. 
He  is  as  a  mountain,  whose  majesty  and  multitu 
dinous  beauty,  meaning,  and  magnitude  and  im 
press,  must  be  gotten  by  slow  processes  in  journey 
ing  about  it  through  many  days.  Who  sits  under 
its  pines  at  noon,  lies  beside  its  streams  for  rest, 
walks  under  its  lengthening  shadows  as  under  a 
cloud,  and  has  listened  to  the  voices  of  its  water 
falls,  thrilling  the  night  and  calling  to  the  spa 
cious  firmament  as  if  with  intent  to  be  heard  "very 
far  off,"  has  thus  learned  the  mountain,  vast  of 
girth,  kingly  in  altitude,  perpetual  in  sovereignty. 
We  study  a  world's  circumference  by  seg 
ments;  nor  let  us  suppose  we  can  do  other  by 
this  cosmopolitan  Shakespeare.  He,  so  far  as 
touches  our  earth  horizon,  is  ubiquitous.  Look 
ing  at  him  sum-totally,  we  feel  his  mass,  and  say 
we  have  looked  upon  majesty.  But  as  a  mountain 
is,  in  circumference  and  altitude,  always  beckon 
ing  us  on,  as  if  saying,  "My  summit  is  not  far 
away,  but  near,"  and  so  spurring  our  laggard 
steps  to  espouse  the  ascent,  and  toiling  on,  on,  still 
on,  a  little  further — only  a  little  further — till  heart 
and  flesh  all  but  fail  and  faint,  but  for  the  might 
of  will,  we  fall  to  rise  again,  and  try  once  more, 
till  we  fall  upon  the  summit,  and  lie  on  thresholds 


VOUGHT  COLLECTION 


SOME;  WORDS  ON  MOVING  SHAKESPEARE    51 

leading  to  the  stars.  The  mountain  understated 
its  magnitude  to  us — not  of  intent,  but  in  simple 
modesty.  I  think  it  did  not  itself  know  its  mass. 
Greatness  has  a  subtle  self-depreciation;  and  we 
shall  come  to  know  our  huge  Shakespeare  only 
by  approaching  him  on  foot.  He  must  be  studied 
in  fragments.  His  plays,  if  I  may  be  pardoned 
for  coining  a  word,  need  not  an  omnigraph,  but 
monographs.  Let  Shakespeare  be,  and  give  eye 
and  ear  to  his  history,  comedy,  tragedy;  and 
when  we  have  done  with  them,  one  by  one,  we 
shall  discover  how  the  aggregated  mass  climbs 
taller  than  highest  mountains.  PThis  method,  in 
tentative  fashion,  I  propose  to  apply  in  some 
studies  in  this  volume,  or  other  volumes,  be 
lieving  thatythe  company  of  those  who  love 
Shakespeare  can  never  be  large  enough  for  his 
merits,  and  \thatr  many  are  kept  away  from  the 
witchery  of  him  because  they  do  not  well  know 
the  fine  art  of  approaching  him.  I  would,  there 
fore,  be  a  doorkeeper,  and  throw  some  doors  wide 
open,  that  men  and  women  may  unhindered  enter. 
This  essay  aims  to  stand  as  a  porter  at  the  gate. 
We  shall  never  overestimate  Shakespeare,  be 
cause  we  can  not.  Some  men  and  things  lie  be 
yond  the  danger  of  hyperbole.  No  exaggeration 
is  possible  concerning  them,  seeing  they  tran 
scend  all  dreams.  Space  can  not  be  conceived 
by  the  most  luxuriant  imagination,  holding,  as 


52        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

it  does,  all  worlds,  and  capable  of  holding  another 
universe  besides,  and  with  room  to  spare. 
Clearly,  we  can  not  overestimate  space.  Thought 
and  vocabulary  become  bankrupt  when  they  at 
tempt  this  bewildering  deed.  Genius  is  as  im 
measurable  as  space.  Shakespeare  can  not  be 
measured.  We  can  not  go  about  him,  since  life 
fails,  leaving  the  journey  not  quite  well  begun. 
Yet  may  we  attempt  what  can  not  be  performed, 
because  each  attempt  makes  us  worthy,  and  we 
are  measured,  not  by  what  we  achieve,  but  by 
what  we  attempt,  as  Lowell  writes : 

"Grandly  begin!    Though  thou  have  time 
But  for  one  line,  be  that  sublime: 
Not  failure,  but  low  aim,  is  crime." 

The  eaglet's  failure  in  attempted  flight  teaches 
him  to  mitsoar  clouds.  We  are  not  so  greatly 
concerned  that  we  find  the  sources  of  the  Nile 
as  that  we  search  for  them.  In  this  lie  our  tri 
umph  and  reward. 

(  Besides  all  this,  may  there  not  be  a  place  for 
more  of  what  may  be  named  inspirational  liter 
ature?  Henry  Van  Dyke  has  coined  a  happy 
phrase  in  giving  title  to  his  delightful  volume  on 
"The  Poetry  of  Tennyson,"  calling  his  papers 
"Essays  in  Vital  Criticism."  I  like  the  thought.  } 
Literature  is  life,  always  that,  in  so  far  as  liter 
ature  is  great ;  for  literature  tells  our  human 


SOME;  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE     53 

story.  Essayist,  novelist,  poet,  are  all  doing  one 
thing,  as  are  sculptor,  painter,  architect.  Of 
detail  criticism  ("dry-as-dust"  criticism,  to  use 
Carlyle's  term)  there  is  much,  though  none  too 
much,  which  work  requires  scholarship  and  pains 
taking,  and  is  necessary.  Malone  is  a  requirement 
of  Shakespearean  study.  But,  candidly,  is  verbal, 
textual  criticism  the  largest,  truest  criticism? 
Dust  is  not  man,  though  man  is  dust.  No  geolo 
gist's  biography  of  the  marble  from  Carrara,  nor 
a  biographer's  sketch  of  the  sculptor,  will  explain 
the  statue,  nor  do  justice  to  the  artist's  concep 
tion.  I,  for  one,  want  to  feel  the  poet's  pulse- 
beat,  brain-beat,  heart-beat.  What  does  he 
mean?  Let  us  catch  this  speaker's  words.  What 
was  that  he  said?  Let  me  feel  sure  I  have  his 
meaning.  We  may  break  a  poem  up  into  bits, 
like  pieces  of  branches  picked  up  in  a  woodland 
path;  but  is  this  what  the  poet  would  have  de 
sired?  He  takes  lexicons  and  changes  them  into 
literatures,  begins  with  words,  ends  with  poems. 
His  art  was  synthetic.  He  was  not  a  crab,  to 
move  backward,  but  a  man,  to  move  forward ;  and 
his  poetry  is  not  debris,  like  the  broken  branch, 
but  is  exquisite  grace  and  moving  music.  Tears 
come  to  us  naturally,  like  rain  to  summer  clouds, 
when  we  have  read  his  words.  Much  criticism 
is  dry  as  desiccated  foods,  though  we  can  not  be 
lieve  this  is  the  nobler  criticism,  since  God's  grow- 


54         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

ing  fruit  is  his  best  fruit.  A  tree  with  climbing 
saps  and  tossing  branches,  fertile  in  shade  and 
sweet  with  music,  is  surely  fairer  and  truer  than  a 
dead,  uprooted,  prostrate,  decaying  trunk.  This, 
then,  would  I  aspire  humbly  to  do  with  Shak.es- 
peare  or  another,  to  help  men  to  his  secret ;( for 
to  admit  men  to  any  poet's  provinces  is  nothing 
other  than  to  introduce  them 

"To  the  island  valley  of  Avilion, 
Where  falls  not  hail  nor  rain  nor  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly;  but  it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns, 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  seas." 


There  is  no  trace  of  exaggeration  in  saying: 
Many  people  frequent  theaters  ostensibly  for  the 
purpose  of  understanding  the  great  dramatists, 
and,  leading  thereto,  seeing  noted  tragedians  act 
Lear,  Richard  III,  Julius  Caesar,  Hamlet,  and  at 
the  end  of  years  of  attendance  have  no  conception 
of  these  dramas  as  a  whole.  They  had  heard  one 
voice  among  the  many;  but  when  the  many  voices 
blended,  what  all  meant  they  can  not  begin  to 
guess.  What  playgoer  will  give  a  valid  analysis 
of  King  Lear?  Ask  him,  and  his  ideas  will  be 
chaotic  as  clouds  on  a  stormy  night.  Not  even 
the  elder  Kean  is  the  best  interpreter  of 
Shakespeare;  for  the  dramatist  reserves  that 
function  to  himself — Shakespeare  is  his  own  best 


SOME  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE    55 

interpreter.  Dream  over  his  plays  by  moonlit 
nights;  pore  over  his  pages  till  chilly  skies 
grow  gray  with  dawn;  read  a  play  without  ris 
ing  from  the  ingratiating  task,  and  you,  not  a 
tragedian,  will  have  a  conception  of  the  play.  I 
will  rather  risk  getting  at  an  understanding  of 
beautiful,  bewitching  Rosalind  by  reading  and  re 
reading  "As  You  Like  It"  than  by  all  theaters 
and  stage-scenes  and  players.  A  dramatist  is  his 
own  best  interpreter.  The  most  discerning  crit 
ics  of  the  great  dramas  are  not  theater-goers. 
The  theater  runs  to  eyes;  study  runs  to  thought. 
In  a  theater  the  actor  thinks  for  us;  in  a  study 
we  think  for  ourselves.  r  For  contemporaries  of 
"The  Letters  of  Junius"  t6  attempt  guessing  who 
Junius  was,  was  plainly  exhilarating  as  a  walk 
at  morning  along  a  country  lane.  To  attempt  the 
interpretation  of  a  Shakespeare's  tragedy  for 
yourself  is  no  less  so.  ,  Believe  in  your  own 
capabilities,  and  test  y6ur  own  powers.  Con 
ceive  of  Shakespeare's  folk,  not  as  dead  and  past, 
but  as  living.  These  men  and  women,  among 
whom  we  move,  are  those  among  whom  Shakes 
peare  moved.  Ages  change  customs  and  cos 
tumes,  but  not  characters.  Bring  Shakespeare 
down  to  now,  and  see  how  rational  his  men  and 
women  become;  and  we,  as  central  to  his  move 
ment,  may  begin  to  reckon  on  the  periodicity  of 
souls  as  of  comets.  (l  would  have  people  inherit 


56         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

Shakespeare  as  they  inherit  Newton's  discoveries 
or  ^Columbus's  new  world.\ 

And  as  we  know,  w£  shall  learn  to  trust, 
Shakespeare.  He  is  uniformly  truthful.  \  He  may 
sin  against  geographical  veracity,  as  when  he 
names  Bohemia  a  maritime  province;  or  he  may 
give  Christian  reasonings  to  ancient  heathen;  but 
these  are  errata,  not  falsehoods;  and  besides, 
these  are  mistakes  of  a  colorist,  or  in  background 
of  figure-painting,  and  do  not  touch  the  real  prov 
ince  of  the  dramatist,  whose  office  is  not  to  paint 
landscapes,  £>ut  figures — and  figures  not  of  physique, 
but  of  soul-J— the  delineation  of  character  being  the 
dramatist's  business.^Here  is  Shakespeare  always 
accurate.  To  argue  with  him  savors  of  petulancy 
or  childish  ignorance  or  egotism.  Some  people 
ourselves  have  met  had  no  sense  of  character,  as 
some  have  no  sense  of  color.  They  do  not  per 
ceive  logical  continuity  here,  as  in  reasoning,  but 
approach  each  person  as  an  isolated  fact,  whereas 
souls  are  a  series — men  repeating  men,  women 
repeating  women,  in  large  measure,  as  a  child 
steps  in  his  father's  tracks  across  a  field  of  snow 
in  winter.  Other  people  seem  intuitively  to 
read  character,  being  able  to  shut  their  eyes  and 
see  more  than  others  with  eyes  open,  having  a 
faculty  for  practical  psychology,  which  is  little 
less  than  miracle,  as  in  Tennyson,  who  was  not 
a  man  among  men — being  shy  as  a  whip-poor-will, 


SOME)  WORDS  ON  MOVING  SHAKESPEARE    57 

seclusive  as  flowers  which  haunt  the  woodland 
shadows — yet  those  reading  him  must  know  how 
accurately  he  reads  the  human  heart; /and  his 
characterization  of  Guinevere,  Pelleas,  Bedivere, 
Enid,  the  lover  in  Maud,  a  Becket,  the  Princess, 
Philip,  Enoch  Arden,  and  Dora,  are,  in  ac 
curacy,  as 

"Perfect  music  unto  noble  words."  } 

Some  people  are  born  to  this  profound  in 
sight  as  storm-petrels  for  the  seas,  needing  not 
to  be  tutored,  and  are  as  men  and  women  to 
whom  we  tell  our  secrets,  scarce  knowing  why 
we  do.  But  Shakespeare  knows  what  the 
sphinx  thinks,  if  anybody  does.  /His  genius  is 
penetrative  as  cold  midwinter  entering  every 
room,  and  making  warmth  shiver  in  ague  fits.  > 
I  think  Shakespeare  never  errs  in  his  logical 
sequence  in  character.  He  surprises  us,  seems 
unnatural  to  us,  but  because  we  have  been  super 
ficial  observers ;  while  genius  will  disclose  those 
truths  to  which  we  are  blind.  Recur  to  Ophelia, 
whom  Goethe  has  discussed  with  such  insight. 
Ophelia  is,  to  our  eyes  and  ears,  pure  as  air. 
We  find  no  fault  in  her.  Certainly,  from  any 
standpoint,  her  conduct  is  irreproachable;  yet, 
surprisingly  enough,  when  she  becomes  insane, 
she  sings  tainted  songs,  and  salacious  suggestions 
are  on  her  lips,  which  in  sane  hours  never  ut- 


58        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

tered  a  syllable  of  such  a  sort.  And  Shakespeare 
is  wrong?  No;  follow  him.  Thoughts  are  like 
rooms  when  shutters  are  closed  and  blinds  down, 
and  can  not,  therefore,  be  seen.  We  tell  our 
thoughts,  or  conceal  them,  according  to  our  de 
sire  or  secretiveness,  and  speech  may  or  may 
not  be  a  full  index  to  thought;  and  Shakespeare 
would  indicate  that  fair  Ophelia,  love-lorn  and 
neglected;  fair  Ophelia,  whose  words  and  con 
duct  were  unexceptional,  even  to  the  sharp  eyes 
of  a  precisian — fair  Ophelia  cherished  thoughts 
not  meet  for  maidenhood,  and  in  her  heart  toyed 
with  voluptuousness.  I  know  nothing  more  accu 
rate;  and  the  penetration  of  this  poet  seems,  for 
the  moment,  something  more  than  human.  After 
a  single  example,  such  as  adduced,  would  not  he 
be  guilty  of  temerity  who  would  question  Shakes 
peare's  accuracy  in  character  delineation?  The 
sum  of  what  has  been  said  on  this  point  is,  dis 
trust  yourself  rather  than  Shakespeare;  and  when 
your  notions  and  his  are  not  coincident,  or  when, 
more  strongly  stated,  you  feel  sure  that  here  for 
once  he  is  inaccurate,  reckon  that  he  is  pro- 
founder  than  you,  and  do  you  begin  to  seek  for 
a  hidden  path  as  one  lost  in  a  wilderness,  when, 
in  all  probability,  you  will  discover  that  what  you 
deemed  inexact  was  in  reality  a  profotmder  truth 
than  had  come  under  your  observation.  Nor 


SOME  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE    59 

would  a  discussion  of  Shakespeare's  truthfulness 
be  rounded  out  should  his  value  as  historian  be 
omitted.  He  is  profoundest  of  philosophical  his 
torians,  compelling  the  motives  in  historic  person 
ages  to  disclose  themselves,  while,  in  the  main, 
his  historical  data  are  correct  as  understood  in  his 
day.  He  has  not  juggled  with  facts,  though  in 
instances  where  he  has  taken  liberty  with  events 
he  has,  by  such  change  in  historic  setting,  made 
the  main  issues  more  apparent.  Some  one  has 
said  that  simply  as  historian  of  England  Shakes 
peare  has  done  nobly  by  his  country,  which 
remark  I,  for  one,  think  accurate.  Beginning 
with  King  John,  he  keeps  the  main  channels  of 
English  history  to  the  birth  of  Elizabeth,  where, 
in  a  spirit  of  subtle  courtesy,  he  makes  the  desti 
nation  of  his  historical  studies.  If  the  purpose  of 
noble  history  be  to  make  us  understand  men  and, 
consequently,  measures,  then  is  Shakespeare  still 
the  greatest  English  historian.  Richard  III 
never  becomes  so  understandable  as  in  the  drama; 
and  Henry  IV  is  a  figure  clearly  seen,  as  if  he 
stood  in  the  sunlight  before  our  eyes,  so  that  any 
one  conversant  with  these  history-plays  is  forti 
fied  against  all  stress  in  solid  knowledge  and  pro 
found  insight  into  turbulent  eras  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  history ;  for  Shakespeare  has  given  us 
history  carved  in  relief,  as  are  the  metopes  of  the 


60        A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER  FOLK 

Parthenon.  For  knowledge  psychologically  and 
historically  accurate  commend  me  to  William 
Shakespeare,  historian. 

The  lover  is  Shakespeare's  main  thesis;  and 
his  lovers — men  and  women — never  violate  the 
proprieties  of  love.  What  his  lovers  do  has  been 
done  and  will  be  done.  Helena,  in  "All 's  Well 
that  Ends  Well,"  is  a  true  phase  of  womanhood; 
and  in  those  days  of  the  more  general  infidelity  and 
lordship  of  man,  more  common  than  now — 
though  now  this  picture  is  truthful — woman  has  a 
power  of  self-sacrifice  and  rigorous  self-denial 
when  in  love,  which,  as  it  is  totally  unconscious 
on  her  part,  is  as  totally  inexplicable  on  our  part. 
Life  is  not  a  condition  easily  explained.  The 
heart  of  simplest  man  or  woman  is  a  mystery, 
compared  with  which  the  sphinx  is  an  open  secret. 
The  vagaries  of  love  in  life  are  the  vagaries  of  love 
in  Shakespeare.  Life  was  his  book,  which  he 
knew  by  heart.  Rosalind,  in  "As  You  Like  It," 
is  a  portrait  both  fair  and  accurate.  We  have 
seen  Rosalind,  and  the  sight  of  her  was  good  for 
the  eyes.  To  read  Shakespeare  is  to  be  told  what 
we  ourselves  have  seen,  we  not  recognizing  the 
people  we  had  met  until  he  whispers  in  our  ears, 
"You  have  seen  her  and  him ;"  whereat  we  answer, 
"Yes,  truly,  so  we  have,  though  we  did  not  know 
it  till  you  told  us." 

Shakespeare    is    philosopher    of    both    sexes, 


SOME  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE     61 

though  this  is  not  the  rule,  as  we  will  readily  agree, 
thinking  over  the  great  portrait  painters  of  char 
acter.  (  To  state  a  single  illustrative  case :  Hall 
Caine  must  be  allowed  to  have  framed  some 
mighty  men,  tragic,  or  melodramatic  sometimes, 
somber  always,  but  men  of  bulk  and  character. 
Pete,  in  "The  Manxman/'  is  a  creation  sufficient 
to  make  the  artist  conceiving  him  immortal;  and 
Red  Jason  is  no  less  real,  manly,  mighty,  self-mas 
tering,  self-surrendering.  Caine's  men  are  giants; 
but  his  women  do  not  satisfy  and  seldom  interest 
us,  with  an  exception  in  a  few  cases — as  with  Na 
omi  in  "The  Scape  Goat,"  and  Greeba,  wife  of 
Michal  Sunlocks;  though  Naomi  is  little  more 
than  a  figure  seen  at  a  doorway,  standing  in  the 
sun;  for  she  has  not  forged  a  character  up  to  the 
time  when  her  lover  puts  arm  about  her,  as  she 
droops  above  her  dying  father,  when  his  vast  love 
would  make  him  immortal  for  her  sake.  Glory 
Quayle  is  interesting,  but  unsatisfactory.  My  be 
lief  is  that  Tolstoi  has  drawn  no  ,man  approaching 
his  astonishing  Anna  Karenina../  Shakespeare  is 
ambidexter  here.  All  things  are  seemingly  native 
to  him;  for  he  is  never  at  a  loss.  Not  words, 
thoughts,  dreams,  images,  music,  fail  him  for  a 
moment  even.  Who  found  him  feeling  for  a 
word?  Did  we  not  find  them  ready  at  his  hand  as 
Ariel  was  ready  to  serve  Prospero?  Lear, 
Prospero,  Brutus,  Cassius,  Falstaff,  lago,  Mac- 


62    A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER  FOI.K: 

beth,  Hamlet,  are  as  crowning  creations  as  Cleo 
patra,  Miranda,  Lady  Macbeth,  Katharine  the 
Shrew,  Imogen,  or  Cordelia.  We  know  not  which 
to  choose,  as  one  who  looks  through  a  mountain 
vista  to  the  sea,  declaring  each  view  fairer  than 
the  last,  yet  knowing  if  he  might  choose  any  one 
for  a  perpetual  possession  he  could  not  make  de 
cision.  We  are  incapable  of  choosing  between 
Shakespeare's  men  and  his  women. 

Small  volumes  are  best  for  reading  Shakes 
peare,  for  this  reason:  In  large  volumes  the 
dramas  get  lost  to  your  thought,  as  a  nook  of 
beauty  is  apt  to  get  lost  in  the  abundant  beauty 
of  summer  hills,  solely  because  there  are  so  many ; 
but  when  put  into  small  volumes,  each  play  be 
comes  individualized,  made  solitary,  and  stands 
out  like  a  tree  growing  in  a  wide  field  alone.  Do 
not  conceive  of  Shakespeare's  plays  as  marble 
column,  pediment,  frieze,  metope,  built  into  a 
Parthenon,  but  conceive  of  each  play  as  a  Parthe 
non;  for  I  think  it  certain  each  one  might  have 
stood  solitary  on  cape  or  hill,  as  those  old  Greeks 
built  temples  to  their  tutelar  deities.  He  wrote 
so  much  and  so  greatly  as  to  bewilder  us,  just 
as  night  does  with  her  multitudinous  stars.  Who 
maps  the  astral  globe  will  divide  his  heavens  into 
sections,  so  he  may  chart  his  constellations.  The 
like  must  be  done  with  Shakespeare.  A  great 
painting  is  always  at  more  of  an  advantage  in  a. 


SOME  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE    63 

room  of  its  own  than  in  a  gallery,  since  each 
picture  is  in  a  way  a  distraction,  stealing  a  trifle 
of  beauty  from  its  fellow,  though  adding  nothing 
to  itself  thereby.  "Come,"  we  say  to  a  dear  friend 
from  whom  we  have  been  parted  for  a  long  time, 
"come,  let  me  have  you  alone;"  and  you  walk 
across  a  field,  and  sit  in  the  singing  shadows  of 
the  pines — you  appropriate  your  friend.  Do  the 
same  with  a  poem;  for  in  such  a  wilderness  of 
beauty  and  majesty  as  Shakespeare's  plays  this 
need  becomes  imperative.  Pursuant  to  this  sug 
gestion,  I  recur  to  a  previous  thought  on  Shakes 
pearean  criticism  that,  rich  as  it  is,  is  defective  in 
this  individualization — so  much  being  written  on 
the  whole,  so  little  in  comparison  on  the  parts. 
Each  drama  fills  our  field  of  vision,  and  justifies 
a  dissertation.  Each  dialogue  of  Plato  demands 
an  essay  by  Jowett.  How  well,  then,  may  each 
dialogue  of  Shakespeare  demand  a  separate 
study!  There  is  distinct  gain  in  looking  at  a 
landscape  from  a  window,  sitting  a  little  back  from 
the  window-sill,  the  view  being  thus  framed  as  a 
picture,  and  the  superfluous  horizon  cut  off;  and 
the  relevancies,  as  I  may  say,  are  included  and  the 
irrelevancies  excluded ;  for  in  looking  at  too 
much  we  are  losers,  not  gainers,  the  eye  failing  to 
catch  the  entirety  of  meaning.  Here  is  the  ad 
vantage  of  the  landscape  painter,  who  seizes  the 
view  to  which  we  should  restrict  our  eyes,  bring- 


64        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

ing  into  compass  of  canvas  what  we  should  have 
brought  into  compass  of  sky  and  scene,  but  did 
not.  So  these  window  views  of  Shakespeare  are 
what  we  greatly  need  now,  and  are  what  Hudson 
and  Rolfe  and  Ulrici  and  the  various  editors  of 
note  have  given. 

But  after  all,  the  best  interpretation  of  a  drama 
Or  any  poem  is  to  be  gained  first  hand,  nothing 
being  clearer  than  that  every  poem  challenges 
individual  interpretation,  as  if  saying,  "What  do 
you  think  I  mean?"  There  is  too  much  knowing 
productions  by  proxy,  of  being  conversant  with 
what  every  sort  of  body  thinks  about  Hamlet,  but 
ourselves  being  a  void  so  far  as  distinctively  indi 
vidual  opinion  goes.  A  poem,  like  the  Scriptures, 
is  its  own  best  interpreter;  and  there  is  always 
scope  for  the  personal  equation  in  judging  liter 
ature,  because  criticism  is  empiricism  in  any  case, 
being  opinion  set  against  opinion.  Different 
people  think  different  things,  and  that  is  the  end. 
Literary  criticism  can  never  be  an  exact  science, 
and  everybody  may  have  and  should  have  an 
opinion.  Great  productions  have  never  had  their 
meaning  exhausted,  since  meanings  are  an  infinite 
series.  So,  to  get  an  interpretation  of  Cymbeline, 
say,  get  into  the  midst  of  the  drama,  as  if  it  were 
a  stream  and  you  a  boatman  in  your  boat.  Com 
mit  you  to  the  drama's  flood,  omitting  for  a  time 
what  others  have  thought,  and  read  as  if  the  poem 


SOME  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE    65 

were  a  fresh  manuscript  found  by  you,  and  read 
with  such  avidity  as  scholars  of  the  Renaissance 
knew  when  a  palimpsest  of  Tacitus  or  Theocritus 
was  found.  Let  your  imagination,  as  well  as  the 
poet's,  spread  wings.  Becorrie  creative  yourself; 
for  this  is  true:  No  one  can  rightly  conceive  any 
work  of  imagination  and  be  himself  unimaginative. 
Read  and  re-read,  and  at  length,  like  the  cliffs  of 
shore  rising  out  of  ocean  mists,  dim,  but  stable 
and  increasingly  palpable,  will  come  a  scheme  of 
meaning.  Miss  nothing.  Let  no  beauty  elude  you. 
Odors  must  not  waste;  we,  in  a  spirit  of  lofty 
economy,  must  inhale  them.  Watch  the  drift  of 
verbal  trifles ;  for  Shakespeare  uses  no  superfluities. 
His  meaning  dominates  his  method;  his  modu 
lations  are  prophetic.  See,  therefore,  that  he  does 
not  elude  you,  escaping  at  some  path  or  shadow, 
but  cling  to  his  garments,  however  swiftly  he 
runs.  Such  study  will  bear  fruit  of  sure  triumph 
in  your  conceiving  a  hidden  import  of  a  great 
drama.  This  method  of  self-assertiveness  in  read 
ing  is  logical  and  invigorating.  Think  as  well  as 
be  thought  for. f 

Of  all  poets,  Shakespeare  is  richest  in  the 
material  of  simile.  He  thought  in  pictures,  which 
is  another  way  of  saying  he  wooed  comparatives. 
Thought  is  inert;  and  he  is  greatest  in  expression 
who  can  supply  his  thinking  with  ruddy  blood, 
flush  the  pallid  cheek,  make  the  dull  eye  bright, 
5 


66         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K 

and  make  laughter  run  across  the  face  like  ripples 
of  sunshine  across  water  touched  by  the  wind. 
In  Shakespeare's  turn  of  phrase  and  use  of  figure 
is  a  fertility  of  suggestion  such  as  even  Dante 
can  not  approximate.  He  is  unusual,  which  is 
a  merit;  for  thus  is  mind  kept  -on  the  alert,  like 
a  sentinel  fearing  surprise.  Of  this  an  essay  might 
be  rilled  with  illustrations.  He  does  not  try  to  use 
figures,  but  can  not  keep  from  using  them.  As 
stars  flash  into  light,  so  he  flashes  into  metaphor, 
metonymy,  trope,  personification,  or  simile.  Be 
cause  he  sees  everything,  is  he  fertile  in  sugges 
tion,  and  his  comparisons  are  numerous  as  his 
thoughts.  See  how  his  figures  multiply  as  you  have 
seen  foam-caps  multiply  on  waves  when  the  wind 
rises  on  the  sea! 

"We  burn  daylight." 

"Nay,  the  world  's  my  oyster, 
Which  I  with  sword  shall  open." 

"I  hold  you  as  a  thing  enskied  and  sainted.'* 

"My  library 
Was  dukedom  large  enough." 

"Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  his  soul." 

"Make  a  swan-like  end, 
Fading  in  music." 

"Those  blessed  candles  of  the  night." 


SOMK  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE    67 

"The  schoolboy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining,  morning  face." 

"Like  an  unseasonable  stormy  day, 
Which  makes  the  silver  rivers  drown  their  shores." 

"He  fires  the  proud  tops  of  the  eastern  pines." 

"And  must  I  ravel  out 
My  weaved-up  follies?" 

"Give  sorrow  leave  awhile  to  tutor  me 
To  this  submission." 

"The  gaudy,  babbling,  and  remorseless  day 
Is  crept  into  the  bosom  of  the  sea." 

"There  is  some  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distill  it  out." 

"He  hath  a  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 
Open  as  day  for  melting  charity." 

"That  daffed  the  world  aside, 
And  bid  it  pass." 

"He  is  come  to  ope 
The  purple  testament  of  bleeding  war." 

"She  sat,  like  patience  on  a  monument, 
Smiling  at  grief." 

"That  strain  again;  it  had  a  dying  fall: 
O,  it  came  o'er  my  ear  like  the  sweet  south, 
That  breathes  upon  a  bank  of  violets, 
Stealing  and  giving  odor." 

"For  courage  mounts  with  occasion." 


68         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

"Here  I  and  sorrows  sit; 
Here  is  my  throne;  bid  kings  come  bow  to  it." 

"Death's  dateless  night." 

"Life  is  as  tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale, 
Vexing  the  dull  ear  of  a  drowsy  man." 

"The  tongues  of  dying  men 
Enforce  attention  like  deep  harmony." 

"Falstaff  sweats  to  death, 
And  lards  the  lean  earth  as  he  walks  along." 

"I  have  set  my  life  upon  a  cast, 
And  I  will  stand  the  hazard  of  the  die." 

"  'T  is  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  be  perked  up  in  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow." 

"An  old  man  broken  with  the  storms  of  state." 
"Care  keeps  his  watch  in  every  old  man's  eye." 

"Night's  candles  are  burnt  out,  and  jocund  day 
Stands  tiptoe  on  the  misty  mountain-tops." 

"Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain." 

"One  vial  full  of  Edward's  blood  is  cracked, 
And  all  the  precious  liquor  spilt." 

In  such  quest  as  this,  one  is  enticed  as  if  he 
followed  the  windings  of  a  stream  under  the 
shadows  of  the  trees.  Past  waterfall  and  banks 
of  flowers  and  choiring  of  the  birds,  he  goes  on 


SOME  WORDS  ON  I/OVING  SHAKESPEARE    69 

forever,  except  he  force  himself  to  pause. 
Shakespeare  is  always  an  enticement,  whose 
turns  of  poetic  thought  and  verbiage  are  a  pure 
delight.  Note  this  quality  in  the  quotations — a 
word  naturally  expresses  a  thought.  Shakespeare's 
figures  express  a  series  of  thoughts  as  varied  land 
scapes  seen  in  pictures;  in  consequence,  to  read 
him  is  to  see  resemblances  in  things,  because  we 
have  sharpened  vision  -and  can  not,  after  reading 
him,  be  blind  as  we  were  before,  but  feel  the 
plethora  of  our  world  with  the  poetic.  After  he 
has  spoken  for  us  and  to  us,  the  world's  capacity 
is  enlarged ;  we  are,  in  truth,  not  so  much  as  those 
who  have  read  poetry  as  we  are  like  those  who 
have  seen  the  world  pass  before  our  eyes.  We 
thought  the  world  a  stream  run  dry;  but  lo!  the 
bed  is  full  of  waters,  flooded  from  remote  hills, 
where  snowdrifts  melt  and  make  perpetual  rivers. 
After  hearing  him,  we  expect  things  of  our 
world;  its  fertility  seems  so  exhaustless. 

Shakespeare  has  no  hint  of  invalidism  about 
him,  but  is  the  person,  not  the  picture,  of  perfect 
health.  Not  an  intimation  of  the  hypochondriac 
nor  of  the  convalescent  do  I  find  in  him.  He  is 
healthy,  and  his  voice  rings  out  like  a  bell  on  a 
frosty  night.  Take  his  hand,  and  you  feel  shak 
ing  hands,  not  with  -flisculapius,  but  with  Health,  i 
To  be  ailing  when  Shakespeare  is  about  is  an 
impertinence  for  which  you  feel  compelled  to 


yo         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

offer  apology.  Does  not  this  express  our  feeling 
about  this  poet?  He  is  well,  always  well,  and 
laughs  at  the  notion  of  sickness.  He  starts 
a-walking,  and  unconsciously  runs,  as  a  school 
boy  after  school.  His  smile  breaks  into  ringing 
laughter;  and  he,  not  you,  knows  why  he  either 
smiles  or  laughs.  He  and  sunlight  seem  close 
of  kin.  A  mountain  is  a  challenge  he  never  re 
fuses,  but  scales  it  by  bounds,  like  a  deer  when 
pursued  by  the  hunter  and  the  hound.  He  is  not 
tonic,  but  bracing  air  and  perfect  health  and  youth, 
which  makes  labor  a  holiday  and  care  a  jest. 
Shakespeare  is  never  morose.  Dante  is  the  pic 
ture  of  melancholy,  Shakespeare  the  picture  of 
resilient  joy.  Tennyson  beheld  "three  spirits,  mad 
with  joy,  dash  down  upon  a  wayside  flower;"  and 
our  dramatist  is  like  them.  Life  laughs  on  greet 
ing  him;  the  grave  grows  dim  to  sight  when  he 
is  near,  and  you  see  the  deep  sky  instead,  and 
across  it  wheel  wild  birds  in  happy  motion.  In 
Tennyson  is  perpetual  melancholy — the  mood  and 
destiny  of  poetry,  as  I  suppose — but  Shakespeare 
is  not  melancholy,  nor  does  he  know  how  to  be. 
His  face  is  never  sad,  I  think,  and  he  is  fonder 
of  Jack  Falstaff  than  we  are  apt  to  suppose;  for 
health  riots  in  his  blood.  He  weeps,  smiles 
breaking  through  his  weeping,  and  he  turns  from 
the  grave  of  tragedy  with  laughter  leaning  from 
his  eyes,  ^schylus  is  a  poet  whose  face  was  never 


SOME  WORDS  ON  COVING  SHAKESPEARE    71 

lit  even  with  the  candle-light  of  smiles;  but 
Shakespeare,  writer  of  tragedy,  is  our  laughing 
poet.  This  plainly  confounds  our  philosophy  of 
poetry,  since  humor  is  not  poetry;  but  he  binds 
humor  to  his  car  as  Achilles,  Hector,  and  laughs 
at  our  upset  philosophies,  crying:  "This  is  my 
Lear,  weep  for  him;  this  my  Hamlet,  break  your 
hearts  for  him;  this  my  Desdemona,  grow  tender 
for  her  woe, — but  enough :  this  is  my  Rosalind  and 
my  Miranda,  my  Helena  and  Hermione,  my  Or 
lando  and  Ferdinand,  my  Bassanio  and  Leontes; 
laugh  with  them"— and  you  render  swift  obe 
dience,  saying,  with  Lord  Boyet,  in  "Love's  Labor 

Lost/' 

"O,  I  am  stabbed  with  laughter!" 

He  is  court  jester,  at  whose  quips  the  genera 
tions  make  merry.  You  can  not  be  somber  nor 
sober  long  with  him,  though  he  is  deep  as  seas, 
and  fathomless  as  air,  and  lonely  as  night,  and 
sad  betimes  as  autumn.  He  is  not  frivolous,  but 
is  joyous.  The  bounding  streams,  the  singing 
trees,  the  leaping  stags  along  the  lake,  the  birds 
singing  morning  awake, — Shakespeare  incor 
porates  all  these  in  himself.  He  is  what  may  be 
named,  in  a  spiritual  sense,  this  world's  animal 
delight  in  life.  There  is  a  view  of  life  sullen  as 
November;  and  to  be  sympathetic  with  this  mood 
is  to  ruin  life  and  put  out  all  its  lights.  Shakes 
peare's  resiliency  of  spirit  would  teach  us  what  a 


72         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

dispassionate  study  of  our  own  nature  would  have 
taught  us,  that  to  succumb  to  this  gloom  is  not 
natural;  to  feel  the  weight  of  burdens  all  the  time 
would  conduct  to  insanity  or  death;  therefore  has 
God  made  bountiful  provision  against  such  out 
come  in  the  lift  of  cloud  and  lightening  of  burden. 
We  forget  sleep  is  God's  rest-hour  for  spirit;  and, 
besides,  we  read  in  God's  Book  how,  "at  eventide, 
it  shall  be  light,"  an  expression  at  once  of  ex 
quisite  poetry  and  acute  observation:  Our  lives 
are  healthy  when  natural.  The  crude  Byronic 
misanthropy,  even  though  assumed,  finds  no  favor 
in  Shakespeare's  eyes. 

Shakespeare  is  this  world's  poet — a  truth  hinted 
at  before,  but  now  needing  amplifying  a  trifle. 
There  is  in  him  this-worldliness,  but  not  other- 
worldliness,  his  characters  not  seeming  to  the  full 
to  have  a  sense  of  the  invisible  world.  He  is  love's 
poet.  His  lovers  are  imperishable  because  real. 
He  is  love's  laureate.  Yet  are  his  loves  of  this 
world.  True,  there  are  spurts  of  flight,  as  of  an 
eagle  with  broken  wing,  when,  as  in  Hamlet,  he 
faults  this  world  and  aspires  skyward,  yet  does 
not  lose  sight  of  the  earth,  and,  like  the  wounded 
eagle  in  "Sohrab  and  Rustum,"  lies  at  last 

"A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers." 

Plainly,  Shakespeare  was  a  voyager  in  this 
world,  and  a  discoverer,  sailing  all  seas  and 


SOME  WORDS  ON  LOVING  SHAKESPEARE    73 

climbing  tallest  altitudes  to  their  far  summits ;  but 
flight  was  not  native  to  him,  as  if  he  had  said: 

"We  have  not  wings,  we  can  not  soar; 
But  we  have  feet  to  scale,  and  climb." 

I  can  not  think  him  spiritual  in  the  gracious 
sense.  His  contemporary,  Edmund  Spenser,  was 
spiritual,  as  even  Milton  was  not.  This  world 
made  appeal  to  this  poet  of  the  Avon  on  the  radiant 
earthly  side;  the  very  clouds  flamed  with  a  glory 
borrowed  from  the  sun  as  he  looked  on  them. 
His  world  was  very  fair.  In  more  than  a  poetic 
sense  was 

"All  the  world  a  stage." 

Life  was  a  drama,  hastening,  shouting,  ex 
hilarating,  turbulent,  free,  roistering,  but  as  tri 
umphant  as  Elizabeth's  fleet  and  God's  stormy 
waters  were  over  Philip's  great  Armada.  Hamlet 
was  the  terribly  tragic  conception  in  Shakespeare 
because  he  was  hopeless.  Can  you  conceive 
Shakespeare  writing  "In  Memoriam?"  Tenny 
son  was  pre-eminently  spiritual,  and  "In  Memo 
riam"  is  his  breath  dimming  the  window-pane  on 
which  he  breathed.  That  was  Tennyson's  life,  but 
was  patently  no  brave  part  of  Shakespeare.  He 
knew  to  shape  tragedy,  such  as  Romeo  and 
Juliet;  but  how  to  send  abroad  a  cry  like  Enoch 
Arden's  prayer  lay  not  in  him.  He  compassed 


74        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

our  world,  but  found  n-o  way  to  leave  what  proved 
a  waterlogged  ship ;  and  how  to  pilot  to 

"The  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourne 
No  traveler  returns," 

puzzles  Shakespeare's  will  as  it  had  Hamlet's. 

So  not  even  our  great  Shakespeare  can  monopo 
lize  life.  Some  landscapes  have  not  lain  like  a 
picture  beneath  his  eyes ;  he  did  not  exhaust  poetry 
nor  life,  and  room  is  still  left  for 

"New  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds," 
for  whom, 

"Though  much  is  taken,  much  abides;  and  though 
We  are  not  that  strength  which  in  old  days 
Moved  earth  and  heaven;  that  which  we  are,  we  are — 
One  equal  temper  of  heroic  hearts, 
Made  weak  by  time  and  fate,  but  strong  in  will 
To  strive,  to  seek,  to  find,  and  not  to  yield." 


Ill 

Caliban 

YOUR  great  poet  is  eminently  sane.  Not  that 
this  is  the  conception  current  concerning 
him — the  reverse  being  the  common  idea — that  a 
poet  is  a  being  afflicted  with  some  strange  and  un 
classified  rabies.  He  is  supposed  to  be  possessed, 
like  the  Norwegian  Berserker,  whose  frenzy 
amounted  to  volcanic  tumult.  The  genesis  of 
misconceptions,  however,  is  worth  one's  while  to 
study;  for  in  a  majority  of  cases  there  is  in  the 
misconception  a  sufficient  flavoring  of  truth  to 
make  the  erroneous  notion  pass  as  true.  At  bot 
tom,  the  human  soul  loves  truth,  nor  willingly  be 
lieves  or  receives  a  lie.  Our  intellectual  sin  is 
synecdoche,  the  putting  a  part  truth  for  a  whole 
truth.  Generalization  is  dangerous  intellectual 
exercise.  Our  premise  is  insufficient,  and  our 
conclusion  is  self-sufficient,  like  some  strutting 
sciom  of  a  decayed  house.  Trace  the  origin  of  this 
idea  of  a  poet's  non-sanity.  He  was  not  ordinary, 
as  other  men,  but  was  extraordinary,  and  as 
such  belonged  to  the  upper  rather  than  the  lower 
world;  for  we  must  be  convinced  how  wholly  the 
ancients  kept  the  super-earthly  in  mind  in  their 

75 


76        A  HERO  AND  SOMK  OTHER 

logical  processes — an  attitude  wise  and  in  con 
sonance  with  the  wisest  of  this  world's  thinking. 
Heaven  must  not  be  left  out  of  our  computations, 
just  as  the  sun  must  not  be  omitted  in  writing 
the  history  of  a  rose  or  a  spike  of  golden-rod. 
In  harmony  with  this  exalted  origin  of  the  poet 
went  the  notion  that  he  was  under  an  afflatus.  A 
breath  from  behind  the  world  blew  in  his  face ; 
nay,  more,  a  breath  from  behind  the  world  blew 
noble  ideas  into  his  soul,  and  he  spake  as  one 
inspired  of  the  gods.  This  conception  of  a  poet 
is  high  and  worthy ;  nothing  gross  grimes  it  with 
common  dust.  Yet  from  so  noble  a  thought — 
because  the  thought  was  partial — grew  the  gross 
misconception  of  the  poet  as  beyond  law,  as  not 
amenable  to  social  and  moral  customs,  as  one 
who  might  transgress  the  moral  code  with  im 
punity,  and  stand  unreproved,  even  blameless. 
He  was  thought  to  be  his  own  law — a  man  whose 
course  should  no  more  be  reproved  or  hindered 
than  the  winds.  The  poet's  supremacy  brought 
us  to  a  wrong  conclusion.  The  philosopher  we 
assumed  to  be  balanced,  the  poet  to  be  unbalanced. 
Shelley,  and  Poe,  and  Heine,  and  Byron,  and 
Burns  elucidate  this  erroneous  hypothesis  of  the 
poet.  We  pass  lightly  their  misrule  of  them 
selves  with  a  tacit  assumption  of  their  genius  hav 
ing  shaken  and  shocked  their  moral  faculties  as 
in  some  giant  perturbation. 


CALIBAN  77 

I  now  recur  to  the  initial  suggestion,  that  the 
great  poet  is  sane.  The  poet  is  yet  a  man,  and 
man  is  more  than  poet.  Manhood  is  the  regal 
fact  to  which  all  else  must  subordinate  itself. 
Nothing  must  be  allowed  to  disfranchise  man 
hood  ;  and  he  who  manumits  the  poet  from  social 
and  ethical  bonds  is  not  logical,  nor  penetrative 
into  the  dark  mystery  of  soul,  nor  is  he  the  poet's 
friend.  Nor  is  he  a  friend  who  assumes  that 
the  poet,  because  a  poet,  moves  in  eccentric  paths 
rather  than  in  concentric  circles.  Hold  with  all 
tenacity  to  the  poet's  sanity.  He  is  superior, 
and  lives  where  the  eagles  fly  and  stars  run  their 
far  and  splendid  courses;  but  he  is  still  man, 
though  man  grown  tall  and  sublime.  To  the 
truth  of  this  view  of  the  great  poet  bear  witness 
^Eschylus,  and  Dante,  and  Spenser,  and  Shakes 
peare,  and  Tennyson,  and  Browning,  in  naming 
whom  we  are  lighting  on  high  summits,  as  clouds 
do,  and  leaving  the  main  range  of  mountains 
untouched.  Shakespeare  is  absolutely  sane. 
Not  Blondin,  crossing  Niagara  on  a  thread  for  a 
pathway,  was  so  absolute  in  his  balance  as 
Shakespeare.  He  saw  all  the  world.  Nor  is  this 
all;  for  there  are  those  who  see  an  entire  world, 
but  see  it  distorted  as  an  anamorphism.  There 
is  a  cartoon  world,  where  everybody  is  appre 
hended  as  taking  on  other  shapes  than  his  own, 
and  is  valued  in  proportion  as  he  is  susceptible 


78         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

of  caricature.  But  plate-glass  is  better  for  look 
ing  through  than  is  a  prism.  What  men  need  is 
eyes  which  are  neither  far-sighted  nor  near 
sighted,  but  right-sighted.  Shakespeare  was  that. 
There  is  no  hint  of  exaggeration  in  his  charac 
ters.  They  are  people  we  have  met  on  journeys, 
and  some  of  whom  we  have  known  intimately. 
To  be  a  poet  it  is  not  necessary  to  be  a  madman — 
a  doctrine  wholesome  and  encouraging.  I  lay 
down,  then,  as  one  of  the  canons  for  testing  a 
poet's  greatness,  this,  "Is  he  sane?"  and  purpose 
applying  the  canon  to  Robert  Browning,  giving 
results  of  such  application  rather  than  the  modus 
operandi  of  such  results.  I  assert  that  he  bears 
the  test.  No  saner  man  than  Browning  ever 
walked  this  world's  streets.  He  was  entirely 
human  in  his  love  of  life  for  its  own  sake,  in  his 
love  of  nature  and  friends  and  wife  and  child. 
His  voice,  in  both  speech  and  laughter,  had  a  ring 
and  joyousness  such  as  reminded  us  of  Charles 
Dickens  in  his  youth.  His  appreciation  of  life 
was  intense  and  immense.  This  world  and  all 
worlds  reported  to  him  as  if  he  were  an  officer 
to  whom  they  all,  as  subalterns,  must  report.  The 
pendulum  in  the  clock  on  a  lady's  mantel-shelf  is 
not  more  natural  than  the  pendulum  swung  in  a 
cathedral  tower,  though  the  swing  of  the  one  is 
a  slight  and  the  swing  of  the  other  a  great  arc. 
Browning  is  a  pendulum  whose  vibrations  touch 


CAUBAN  79 

the  horizons.  He  does  business  with  fabulous 
capital  and  on  a  huge  scale,  and  thinks,  sees, 
serves,  and  loves  after  a  colossal  fashion,  but  is  as 
natural  in  his  large  life  as  a  lesser  man  is  in  his 
meager  life.  "Caliban  upon  Setebos"  is  a  hint 
of  the  man's  immense  movement  of  soul  and  his 
serene  rationality. 

Browning  will  be  preacher;  and  as  preachers 
"do — and  do  wisely — he  takes  a  text  from  the 
Scriptures,  finding  in  a  psalm  a  sentence  embody 
ing  the  thought  he  purposes  elaborating,  as  a  bud 
contains  the  flower.  The  Bible  may  safely  be 
asserted  to  be  the  richest  treasure-house  of  sug 
gestive  thought  ever  discovered  to  the  soul. 
In  my  conviction,  not  a  theme  treated  in  the  do 
main  of  investigation  and  reason  whose  chapters 
may  not  be  headed  from  the  Book  Divine.  In 
his  "Cleon,"  Browning  has  taken  his  text  from 
the  words  of  Paul;  in  "Caliban  upon  Setebos," 
his  text  is  found  in  Asaph's  psalm,  and  the  words 
are,  "Thou  thoughtest  that  I  was  altogether  such 
a  one  as  thyself."  A  word  will  set  a  great  brain 
on  fire,  as  if  the  word  were  a  torch  and  the  brain 
a  pine-forest,  and  to  thoughtful  minds  it  must  be 
deeply  interesting  to  know  that  this  study  in 
psychology,  which  stands  distinctly  alone  in 
English  literature  and  in  universal  literature,  was 
suggested  by  a  phrase  from  the  Book  of  God. 

To  begin  with,  Caliban  is  one  of  Shakespeare's 


8o .       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

finest  conceptions  in  creative  art.  Caliban  is  as 
certain  in  our  thoughts  as  Ferdinand,  Miranda, 
or  Prospero.  He  is  become,  by  Shakespeare's 
grace,  a  person  among  us  who  can  not  be  ignored. 
Study  his  biography  in  "The  Tempest/'  and  find 
how  masterly  the  chief  dramatist  was  in  rendering 
visible  those  forms  lying  in  the  shadow-land  of 
psychology.  As  Dowden  has  suggested,  doubtless 
Caliban's  name  is  a  poet's  spelling,  or  anagram,  of 
"cannibal ;"  and,  beyond  question,  Setebos  is  a  char 
acter  in  demonology,  taken  from  the  record  of  the 
chronicler  of  Magellan's  voyages,  who  pictures  the 
Patagonians,  when  taken  captive,  as  roaring,  and 
"calling  on  their  chief  devil,  Setebos."  So  far  the 
historical  setting  of  Caliban  and  Sycorax  and 
Setebos.  In  character,  Caliban  and  Jack  Falstaff 
are  related  by  ties  closer  than  those  of  blood. 
Both  are  bestial,  operating  in  different  depart 
ments  of  society;  but  in  the  knight,  as  in  the 
slave,  only  animal  instincts  dominate.  Lust  is 
tyrant.  Animality  destroys  all  manhood,  and 
lowers  to  the  slush  and  ooze  of  degradation  every 
one  given  over  to  its  control.  A  man  degraded 
to  the  gross  level  of  a  beast  because  he  prefers 
the  animal  to  the  spiritual — this  is  Caliban.  His 
mind  is  atrophied,  in  part,  because  lust  sins 
against  reason.  Caliban  is  Prospero's  slave,  but 
he  is  lust's  slave  more — a  slavery  grinding  and 
ignominious  as  servitude  to  Prospero  can  be. 


CALIBAN  81 

Prospero  must  always,  in  the  widest  sense,  lord  it 
over  Caliban,  with  his  diminished  understanding 
and  aggravated  appetites,  who  vegetates  rather 
than  lives.  His  days  are  narrow  as  the  days  of 
browsing  sheep  and  cattle ;  but  his  soul  knows  the 
lecherous  intent,  the  petty  hate,  the  cankerous 
envy,  the  evil  discontents,  indigenous  only  to  the 
soul  of  man.  Plainly,  Caliban  is  man,  not  beast; 
for  his  proclivities,  while  bestial,  are  still  human. 
In  a  beast  is  a  certain  dignity,  in  that  action  is 
instinctive,  irrevocable,  and  so  far  necessary. 
Caliban  is  not  so.  He  might  be  other  than  he  is. 
He  is  depraved,  but  yet  a  man,  as  Satan  was  an 
angel,  though  fallen.  The  most  profligate  man 
has  earmarks  of  manhood  on  him  that  no  beast 
can  duplicate.  And  Caliban  (on  whom  Prospero 
exhausts  his  vocabulary  of  epithets)  attempting 
rape  on  Miranda;  scowling  in  ill-ooncealing  hate 
in  service;  playing  truant  in  his  task  when  from 
under  his  master's  eyes;  traitor  to  Prospero,  and, 
as  a  co-conspirator  with  villains  like  himself, 
planning  his  hurt;  a  compound  of  spleen,  malig 
nancy,  and  murderous  intent;  irritated  under 
conditions ;  failing  to  seize  moral  and  manly  posi 
tions  with  such  ascendency  as  grows  out  of  them, 
yet  full  of  bitter  hate  toward  him  who  wears  the 
supremacy  won  by  moral  worth  and  mastery, — 
really,  Caliban  seems  not  so  foreign  to  our  knowl 
edge  after  all.  Such  is  Shakespeare's  Caliban. 
6 


82        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK: 

Him  Browning  lets  us  hear  in  a  monologue. 
Whoever  sets  man  or  woman  talking  for  us  does 
us  a  service.  To  be  a  good  listener  is  to  be 
astute.  When  anybody  talks  in  our  hearing,  we 
become  readers  of  pages  in  his  soul.  He  thinks 
himself  talking  about  things;  while  we,  if  wise, 
know  he  is  giving  glimpses  of  individual  memo 
rabilia.  Caliban  is  talking.  He  is  talking  to  him 
self.  He  does  not  know  anybody  is  listening; 
therefore  will  there  be  in  him  nothing  theatrical, 
but  his  words  will  be  sincere.  He  plays  no  part 
now,  but  speaks  his  soul. 

Browning  is  nothing  if  not  bold.  He  attempts 
things  audacious  as  the  voyages  of  Ulysses. 
Nothing  he  has  attempted  impresses  me  as  more 
bold,  if  so  bold,  as  this  exploit  of  entering  into 
the  consciousness  of  a  besotted  spirit,  and  stirring 
that  spirit  to  frame  a  system  of  theology.  Nan- 
sen's  tramp  along  the  uncharted  deserts  of  the 
Polar  winter  was  not  more  brilliant  in  inception 
and  execution.  Caliban  is  a  theorist  in  natural 
theology.  He  is  building  a  theological  system  as 
certainly  as  Augustine  or  Calvin  or  Spinoza  did. 
This  poem  presents  that  satire  which  constitutes 
Browning's  humor.  Conceive  that  he  here  satir 
izes  those  omniscient  rationalists  who  demolish,  at 
a  touch,  all  supernatural  systems  of  theology,  and 
proceed  to  construct  purely  natural  systems  in 
their  place  as  devoid  of  vitality  and  inspiration  as 


CALIBAN  83 

dead  tree-trunks  are  of  vital  saps.  So  conceive 
this  dramatic  monologue,  and  the  baleful  humor 
appears,  and  is  captivating  in  its  biting  sarcasm 
and  unanswerable  argument.  Caliban  is,  in  his 
own  opinion,  ominiscienft.  He  trusts  himself  ab 
solutely.  He  is  as  infallible  as  the  Positivists,  and 
as  full  of  information  as  the  Agnostics,  absurd  as 
such  an  attitude  on  their  part  must  appear;  for, 
as  Romanes  has  shown  in  his  "Thoughts  on  Re 
ligion,"  the  Agnostic  must  simply  assert  his  in 
ability  to  know,  and  must  not  dogmatize  as  to 
what  is  or  is  not.  So  soon  as  he  does,  he  has 
ceased  to  be  a  philosophic  Agnostic.  Caliban's 
theology,  though  grotesque,  is  not  a  whit  more 
so  than  much  which  soberly  passes  in  our  day 
for  "advanced  thinking"  and  "new  theology." 

Some  things  are  apparent  in  Caliban.  He  is 
a  man,  not  a  beast,  in  that  no  beast  has  any  com 
merce  with  the  thought  of  God.  Man  is  declared 
man,  not  so  much  by  thinking  or  by  thinking's 
instrument — language — as  by  his  moral  nature. 
Man  prays ;  and  prayer  is  the  imprimatur  of  man's 
manhood.  Camels  kneel  for  the  reception  of  their 
burdens,  but  never  kneel  to  God.  Only  man  has 
a  shrine  and  an  altar.  Such  things,  we  are  told, 
are  signs  of  an  infantile  state  of  civilization  and 
superstition;  but  they  may  be  boldly  affirmed  to 
be,  in  fact,  infallible  signs  of  the  divinity  of  the 
human  soul.  Caliban  is  thinking  of  his  god, 


84        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

brutal,  devilish;  yet  he  thinks  of  a  god,  and  that 
is  a  possibility  as  far  above  the  brute  as  stars 
are  above  the  meadow-lands.  He  has  a  divinity. 
He  is  dogmatist,  as  ignorance  is  bound  to  be. 
He  knows ;  and  distrust  of  himself  or  his  con 
clusions  is  as  foreign  to  him  as  to  the  rationalists 
of  our  century  and  decade.  Caliban  makes  a  god. 
The  attempt  would  be  humorous  were  it  not  pa 
thetic.  If  his  conclusions  are  absurd,  they  are 
what  might  be  anticipated  when  man  engages 
in  the  task  of  god-making.  "Caliban  upon  Sete- 
bos"  is  the  reductio  ad  absurdum  of  the  attempt 
of  man  to  create  God.  God  rises  not  from  man 
to  the  firmament,  but  falls  from  the  firmament 
to  man.  God  does  not  ascend  as  the  vapor, 
but  descends  as  the  light.  This  is  the  wide  mean 
ing  of  this  uncanny  poem.  It  is  the  sanity  of 
the  leading  poet  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and 
the  greatest  poet  since  Shakespeare,  who  saw 
clearly  the  inanity  of  so-called  scientific  conclu 
sions  and  godless  theories  of  the  evolution  of 
mankind.  Mankind  can  not  create  God.  God 
creates  mankind.  All  the  man-made  gods  are 
fashioned  after  the  similitude  of  Caliban's  Setebos. 
They  are  grotesque,  carnal,  devilish.  Paganism 
was  but  an  installment  of  Caliban's  theory.  God 
was  a  bigger  man  or  woman,  with  aggravated 
human  characteristics,  as  witness  Jove  and  Venus 
and  Hercules  and  Mars.  Greek  mythology  is  a 


CALIBAN  85 

commentary  on  Caliban's  monologue.  For  man 
to  evolve  a  god  who  shall  be  non-human,  actually 
divine  in  character  and  conduct,  is  historically  im 
possible.  No  man  could  create  Christ.  The  at 
tempt  to  account  for  religion  by  evolution  is  a 
piece  of  sorry  sarcasm.  Man  has  limitations. 
Here  is  one.  By  evolution  you  can  not  explain 
language,  much  less  religion.  Such  is  the  lesson 
of  "Caliban  upon  Setebos."  Shakespeare  created 
a  brutalized  man,  a  dull  human  slave,  whom 
Prospero  drove  as  he  would  have  driven  a  vicious 
steed.  This  only,  Shakespeare  performed.  Brown 
ing  proposed  to  give  this  man  to  thought,  to  sur 
render  him  to  the  widest  theme  the  mind  has 
knowledge  of — to  let  him  reason  on  God.  How 
colossal  the  conception!  Not  a  man  of  our  cen 
tury  would  have  cherished  such  a  conception  but 
Robert  Browning.  The  design  was  unique,  need 
ful,  valuable,  stimulative.  The  originality,  audacity, 
and  brilliancy  of  the  attempt  are  always  a  tonic 
to  my  brain  and  spiritual  nature.  With  good 
reason  has  this  poem  been  termed  "extraordinary ;" 
and  that  thinker  and  critic,  James  Mudge,  has 
named  it  "the  finest  illustration  of  grotesque  art 
in  the  language." 

The  picture  of  Caliban  sprawling  in  the  ooze, 
brute  instincts  regnant,  is  complete  and  admirable. 
Stealing  time  from  service  to  be  truant  (seeing 
Prospero  sleeps),  he  gives  him  over  to  pure  ani- 


86        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOL,K 

mal    enjoyment,    when,    on    a    sudden,    from    the 
cavern  where  he  lies, 

"He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 
And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider  web, 
Meshes  of  fire, 

And  talks  to  his  own  self  howe'er  he  please, 
Touching  that  other  whom  his  dam  called  God;" 

but  talks  of  God,  not  as  a  promise  of  a  better  life, 
but  purely  of  an  evil  mind, 

"Because  to  talk  about  Him  vexes  Prospero! 
And  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair   [Miranda  and  Pros 
pero],  and  gibe, 
Letting  the  rank  tongue  blossom  into  speech." 

What  a  motive  for  thinking  on  the  august 
God!  He  now  addresses  himself  to  the  conceiv 
ing  of  a  divinity.  He  thrusts  his  mother's  beliefs 
aside  rudely,  as  a  beast  does  the  flags  that  stand 
along  its  way  in  making  journey  to  the  stream 
to  slake  its  thirst.  He  is  grossly  self-sufficient. 
He  is  boor  and  fool  conjoined.  Where  wise  men 
and  angels  would  move  with  reverent  tread  and 
forehead  bent  to  earth,  he  walks  erect,  unhum- 
bled ;  nay,  without  a  sense  of  worship.  How  could 
he  or  another  find  God  so?  The  mood  of  prayer 
is  the  mood  of  finding  God.  Who  seeks  Him 
must  seek  with  thought  aflame  with  love.  Cali 
ban's  reasoning  ambles  like  a  drunkard  staggering 
home  from  late  debauch.  His  grossness  shames 


CALIBAN  87 

us.  And  yet  were  he  only  Caliban,  and  if  he  were 
all  alone,  we  could  forget  his  maudlin  speech — 
but  he  is  more.  He  is  a  voice  of  our  own  era. 
His  babblings  are  not  more  crude  and  irreveren- 
tial  than  much  that  passes  for  profound  thinking. 
Nay,  Caliban  is  our  contemporaneous  shame.  He 
asserts  (he  does  not  think — he  asserts,  settles 
questions  with  a  word)  that  Setebos  created 
not  all  things — the  world  and  sun — 

"But  not  the  stars;  the  stars  came  otherwise;" 

and  this  goodly  frame  of  ocean  and  of  sky  and 
earth  came  of  Setebos. 

"Being  ill  at  ease, 

He  hated  that  he  can  not  change  his  cold 

Nor  cure  its  ache." 

His  god  is  selfishness,  operating  on  a  huge 
scale.  But  more,  he 

"Made  all  we  see  and  us  in  spite:  how  else? 
But  did  in  envy,  listlessness,  or  sport 
Make  what  himself  would  fain  in  a  manner  be — 
Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 
Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all  the  while." 

Made  them  to  plague,  as  Caliban  would  have 
done.  And  caprice  is  Setebos's  method.  He  does 
things  wantonly.  No  noble  master  passion  flames 
in  him.  No  goodness  blesses  him.  Such  a  god 
Caliban  makes,  so  that  it  is  odds  whether  Caliban 
make  God  or  God  make  Caliban.  Be  sure,  a 


88        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

man-made  god  is  like  the  man  who  made  him. 
The  sole  explanation  of  God,  "who  dwelleth  in 
light  which  no  man  can  approach  unto,"  and  who 
is  whiter  than  the  light  in  which  he  dwells,  is, 
he  is  not  myth,  man-made.  God  made  man,  and 
revealed  to  him  the  Maker.  Thus  only  do  we 
explain  the  surpassing  picture  the  prophets  and 
the  Christ  and  the  evangelists  have  left  us  of  the' 
mighty  God.  Caliban  will  persist  in  the  belief 
that  the  visible  system  was  created  in  Setebos's 
moment  of  being  ill  at  ease  and  in  cruel  sportive- 
ness.  Nature  is  a  freak  of  a  foul  mind.  But 
Caliban's  god  is  not  solitary.  How  hideous  were 
the  Aztec  gods!  They  were  pictured  horrors. 
Montezuma's  gods  were  Caliban's.  Caliban's 
Setebos  was  another  Moloch  of  the  Canaanites,  or 
a  Hindoo  Krishna.  And  the  Greek  and  Norse 
gods  were  the  infirm  shadows  of  the  men  who 
dreamed  them.  Who  says,  after  familiarizing 
himself  with  the  religions  of  the  world,  that  Cali 
ban  or  his  theology  is  myth?  Setebos  has  no 
morals.  He  has  might.  But  this  was  Jupiter. 
Read  "Prometheus  Bound,"  and  know  a  Greek 
conception  of  Greek  Zeus : 

"Such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  him, 
Nor  kind  nor  cruel:  He  is  strong  and  Lord. 
Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder  crabs 
That  march  now  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea; 
Let  twenty  pass  and  stone  the  twenty-first, 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so." 


CALIBAN  89 

How  hideous  this  god,  decrepit  in  all  save 
power !  But  for  argument,  suppose 

"He  is  good  i'  the  main, 
Placable  if  his  mind  and  ways  were  guessed, 
But  rougher  than  his  handiwork,  be  sure." 

Caliban  thinks  Setebos  is  himself  a  creature, 
made  by  something  he  calls  "Quiet;"  and  what 
is  this  but  the  Gnostic  notion  of  aeons  and  their 
subordination  to  the  great,  hid  God?  No,  this 
brief  dramatic  lyric  is  far  from  being  an  imagina 
tion.  Rather  say  it  is  a  chapter  taken  from  the 
history  of  man's  traffic  in  gods.  Setebos  is  cre 
ative;  lacks  moral  qualities  in  that  he  may  be 
evil  or  good ;  acts  from  spleen,  and  by  simple 
caprice ;  is  loveless ;  to  be  feared,  deceived, 
tricked,  as  Caliban  tricks  Prospero, — so  run  the 
crude  theological  speculations  of  this  man.  He 
gets  no  step  nearer  truth.  He  walks  in  circles. 
He  is  shut  in  by  common  human  limitations. 
Man  can  not  dream  about  the  sky  until  he  has 
seen  a  sky,  nor  can  he  dream  out  God  till  God 
has  been  revealed.  Caliban  is  no  more  helpless 
here  than  other  men.  His  failure  in  theology  is 
a  picture  of  the  failure  of  all  men.  God  must 
show  himself  at  Sinais  and  at  Calvarys,  at  cross 
and  grave  and  resurrection  and  ascension;  must 
pass  from  the  disclosure  of  his  being  the  "I  Am" 
to  those  climacteric  moments  of  the  world  when 


9O    A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER 

he  discovered  to  us  that  he  was  the  "I  am  Love" 
and  the  "I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 
God  is 

"Terrible:  watch  his  feats  in  proof! 

One  hurricane  will  spoil  six  good  months'  hope. 

He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I  know, 

Just  as  He  favors  Prospero;  who  knows  why? 

So  it  is  all  the  same  as  well  I  find. 

.    .    .     So  much  for  spite." 

There  is  no  after-life. 

"He  doth  His  worst  in  this  our  life, 
Giving  just  respite  lest  we  die  through  pain, 
Saving  last  pain  for  worst — with  which,  an  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape  His  ire 
Is,  not  to  seem  too  happy." 

Poor  Caliban,  not  to  have  known  that  in  the 
summer  of  man's  joy  our  God  grows  glad !  All  he 
hopes  is, 

"Since  evils  sometimes  mend, 
Warts  rub  away  and  sores  are  cured  with  slime, 
That  some  strange  day,  will  either  the  Quiet  catch 
And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier  he 
Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as  die." 

This  is  tragic  as  few  tragedies  know  how  to 
be.  Setebos  is  mean,  revengeful,  fitful,  spiteful, 
everything  but  good  and  noble;  and  his  votary 
will  live  to  hope  that  he  will  either  be  conquered 
by  a  mightier  or  will  slumber  forever! 

So   Caliban    creates    a   god,   a    cosmogony,    a 


CALIBAN  91 

theology;  gets  no  thought  of  goodness  from  God 
or  for  himself;  gets  no  sign  of  reformation  in 
character;  rises  not  a  cubit  above  the  ground 
where  he  constructs  his  monologue;  puts  into 
God  only  what  is  in  Caliban;  has  no  faint  hint 
of  love  toward  him  from  God,  or  from  him  toward 
God,  when  suddenly 

"A  curtain  o'er  the  world  at  once! 
Crickets  stop  hissing;  not  a  bird — or,  yes, 
There  scuds  His  raven  that  has  told  Him  all! 
It  was  fool's  play,  this  prattling!     Ha!    The  wind 
Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,  death's  house  o'  the  move, 
And  fast  invading  fires  begin!    White  blaze — 
A  tree's  head  snaps — and  there,  there,  there,  there,  there, 
His  thunder  follows!    Fool  to  gibe  at  Him! 
Lo!    'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos!" 

And  there,  like  a  groveling  serpent  in  the  ooze, 
there  lies  Caliban,  abject  in  fear,  wibh  not  a  ray 
of  love.  Hopeless,  loveless,  see  him  lie — a  spec 
tacle  so  sad  as  to  make  the  ragged  crags  of  ocean 
weep! 

So  pitiful  a  theology,  yet  no  more  pitiful  than 
theologies  created  in  our  own  epoch.  Men,  not 
brutal  but  opinionated,  assume  to  comprehend  all 
things,  God  included.  They  destroy  and  create 
theologies  with  the  flippant  egotism  of  a  French 
chevalier  of  the  days  of  the  Grand  Monarch. 
They  settle  matters  with  a  "Thus  it  is,  and  thus 
it  is  not."  Would  not  those  men  do  well  to  read 


92        A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

the  parable,  "Caliban  upon  Setebos?"  Grant 
Allen  and  Huxley  would  be  generously  helped; 
for  the  more  they  would  lose  in  dogmatism,  so 
much  the  more  would  they  gain  in  wisdom.  And 
what  is  true  of  them  is  true  of  others  of  their  fra 
ternity.  This  irony  of  Browning's  is  caustic,  but 
very  wholesome.  Barren  as  Caliban's  theology 
is,  certain  contemporary  theologies  are  not  less  so. 
A  day  to  suffer  and  enjoy — and  then  the  night, 
long,  dark,  dreamless,  eternal! 

How  sane  Browning  was!  What  breadth  of 
meaning  is  here  disclosed !  What  preacher  of 
this  century  has  preached  a  more  inspired  sermon 
than  "Caliban  upon  Setebos?"  He  saw  the  ir 
rationality  of  rationalism.  He  knew  that  knowl 
edge  of  God  came,  as  the  new  earth,  "down  from 
God  out  of  heaven."  Men  will  do  better  to  receive 
theologies  from  God  than  to  create  them.  A  life 
we  may  live,  having  the  Pattern  "showed  us  in  the 
mount."  Christ  gives  the  lie  to  Caliban's  estimate 
of  Deity.  Not  spite,  nor  misused  might,  nor 
caprice,  nor  life  surcharged  with  either  indiffer 
ence  or  spleen;  but  love  and  ministry  and  fertile 
thought  and  wide  devotion  to  others'  good,  an 
oblation  of  Himself — this  is  God,  of  whom  Cali 
ban  had  no  dream,  and  of  whom  the  Christ  was 
exegete. 


IV 

William  the  Silent 

FEW  illustrious  characters  are  so  little  known 
as  William  the  Silent.  His  face  has  faded 
from  the  sky  of  history  as  glory  from  a  sunset 
cloud;  though,  on  attention,  reasons  why  this 
is  so  may  not  be  difficult  to  find.  Some  of  them 
are  here  catalogued :  He  did  not  live  to  celebrate 
the  triumph  of  his  statesmanship.  The  nation 
whose  autonomy  and  independence  he  secured  is 
no  longer  a  Republic,  and  so  has,  in  a  measure, 
ceased  to  bear  the  stamp  of  his  genius.  The  nar 
row  limits  of  his  theater  of  action;  for  the  Belgic 
States  were  a  trifling  province  of  Philip  Second's 
stupendous  empire,  stretching,  as  it  did,  from 
Italy  to  the  farthest  western  promontory  of  the 
New  World.  A  theater  is  something.  Throw  a 
heroic  career  on  a  world  theater,  such  as  Julius 
Caesar  had,  and  men  will  look  as  they  would  on 
burning  Moscow.  The  scene  prevents  obscura 
tion.  And  last,  Holland  has,  in  our  days,  passed 
into  comparative  inconsequence,  and  presents  few 
symptoms  of  that  strength  which  once  aspired  to 
•.the  ruler  ship  of  the  oceans. 

93 


94         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

The  Belgic  provinces  were  borrowed  from  the 
ocean  by  an  industry  and  audacity  which  must 
have  astonished  the  sea,  and  continues  a  glory  to 
those  men  who  executed  the  task,  and  to  all  men 
everywhere  as  well,  since  deeds  of  prowess  or 
genius,  wrought  by  one  man  or  race,  inure  to  the 
credit  of  all  men  and  all  races,  achievement  being, 
not  local,  but  universal.  These  Netherlands,  lying 
below  sea-levels,  became  the  garden-spot  of 
Europe,  nurturing  a  thrifty,  capable  people, 
possessing  positive  genius  in  industry,  so  that 
they  not  only  grew  in  their  fertile  soil  food  for 
nations,  if  need  be,  but  became  weavers  of  fabrics 
for  the  clothing  of  aristocracies  in  remote  nations ; 
this,  in  turn,  leading  of  necessity  to  a  commerce 
which  was,  in  its  time,  for  the  Atlantic  what  that 
of  Venice  had  been  to  the  Mediterranean ;  for  the 
Netherlanders  were  as  aquatic  as  sea-birds,  seem 
ing  to  be  more  at  home  on  sea  than  on  dry  land. 
This  is  a  brief  survey  of  those  causes  which  made 
Flanders,  though  insignificant  in  size,  a  princi 
pality  any  king  might  esteem  riches.  In  the  era 
of  William  the  Silent  the  Netherlands  had  reached 
an  acme  of  relative  wealth,  influence,  and  com 
manding  importance,  and  supplied  birthplace  and 
cradle  to  the  Emperor  Charles  V,  who,  for  thirty- 
seven  years  (reaching  from  1519  to  1556)  was 
the  controlling  force  in  European  politics.  This 
ruler  was  grandson  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,. 


WILLIAM  THK  SILENT  95 

and  thus  of  interest  to  Americans,  whose  thought 
must  be  riveted  on  any  one  connected,  however 
remotely,  with  the  discovery  of  this  New  World, 
which  supplies  a  stage  for  the  latest  and  greatest 
experiment  in  civilization  and  liberty,  religion,  and 
individual  opportunity.  Low  as  Spain  has  now 
fallen,  we  can  not  be  oblivious  to  the  fact  how  that, 
on  a  day,  Columbus,  rebuffed  by  every  ruler  and 
every  court,  found  at  the  Spanish  court  a  queen 
who  listened  to  his  dream,  and  helped  the  dreamer, 
because  the  enthusiasm  and  eloquence  of  this 
arch-pleader  lifted  this  sovereign,  for  a  moment  at 
least,  above  herself  toward  the  high  level  where 
Columbus  himself  stood ;  and  that  she  staked  her 
jewels  on  the  casting  of  this  die  must  always 
glorify  Queen  Isabella,  and  shine  some  glory  on 
the  nation  whose  sovereign  she  was.  For  such 
reason  we  are  predisposed  in  Charles  V's  favor. 
He  is  as  a  messenger  from  one  we  love,  whom  we 
love  because  of  whence  he  comes.  His  mother, 
Joanna,  died,  crazed  and  of  a  broken  heart,  from 
the  indifference,  perfidy,  and  neglect  of  her  hus 
band,  Philip,  Archduke  of  Austria.  Her  story 
reads  like  a  novelist's  plot,  and  reasonably  too; 
for  every  fiction  of  woman's  fidelity  in  love  and 
boundlessness  and  blindness  of  affection  is  bor 
rowed  from  living  woman's  conduct.  Woman 
originates  heroic  episodes,  her  love  surviving  the 
wildest  winter  of  cruelty  and  neglect,  as  if  a 


96         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

flower  prevailed  against  an  Arctic  climate,  despite 
the  month-long  night  and  severity  of  frosts,  and 
still  opened  petals  and  dispensed  odors  as  blossom 
ing  in  daytime  and  sunlight  of  a  far,  fair  country. 
The  story  of  Joanna  and  Mary  Tudor  read  sur 
prisingly  alike.  In  reading  these  old  chronicles,  one 
would  think  woman's  lot  was  melancholy  as  a  dreary 
day  of  uninterrupted  rain.  Doubtless  her  lot  is 
ameliorated  in  these  better  days,  when  she  is  not 
chattel  but  sovereign,  and  gives  her  hand  where 
her  heart  has  gone  before.  But  Queen  Mary,  dy 
ing  alone,  longing  for  her  Philip,  who  cared  for 
her  as  much  as  a  falcon  for  singing-birds,  turning 
her  dying  eyes  southward  where  her  Philip  was, 
moaning,  "On  my  heart,  when  I  am  dead,  you 
will  find  Philip's  name  written!" — Mary  Tudor 
was  an  echo  of  the  pain  and  cry  of  Joanna,  Phil 
ip's  grandmother,  a  princess  lacking  in  beauty  of 
person  and  in  sprightliness  and  culture  of  mind. 
Indeed,  her  intellect  was  weak  to  the  verge  of 
insanity;  her  love  for  her  husband,  the  Archduke 
of  Austria,  doting,  and  its  exhibition  extravagant; 
and  her  jealousy,  for  whose  exercise  there  was 
ample  opportunity,  insane  and  passionate.  One 
thing  she  was,  and  that — a  lover.  Her  husband 
was  a  sun ;  and  the  less  he  shined  on  her,  the  more 
did  she  pine  for  his  light.  Than  this,  the  history 
of  kingly  conjugal  relations  has  few  sadder  chap 
ters.  Archduke  Philip  was  young,  engaging, 


THE  SILENT  97 

affable,  fond  of  society,  preferring  the  Netherlands 
to  Spain,  and  anything  to  his  wife's  companion 
ship.  Joanna  and  Philip  were  prospective  heirs 
to  the  crowns  of  Castile  and  Aragon,  and,  as  was 
clearly  wise,  were  urged  by  Queen  Isabella  to 
come  to  Spain,  and  be  acknowledged  as  expectant 
sovereigns  by  the  Cortes  of  both  kingdoms. 
This  was  done.  Here  Duke  Philip  grew  restless, 
eager  for  the  Netherlands,  and,  despite  the  en 
treaties  of  Ferdinand,  Isabella,  and  his  wife,  set 
out  for  the  Low  Countries  three  days  before 
Christmas,  leaving  his  wife  alone  to  give  birth  to 
a  son,  than  which  a  more  heartless  deed  has  not 
been  credited  even  to  the  account  of  a  king. 
But  without  him,  Joanna  sunk  into  a  hopeless  and 
irremediable  melancholy;  and  was  sullenly  rest 
less  without  him  till  his  return  to  Brussels  in  the 
succeeding  year.  Philip's  coldness  inflamed  her 
ardor.  Three  months  after  Joanna  and  Philip 
had  been  enthroned  sovereigns  of  Castile,  Philip 
sickened  and  died  with  his  brief  months  of  king 
ship.  His  death  totally  disordered  an  understand 
ing  already  pitifully  weak.  Her  grief  was  tear 
less  and  pitiful.  To  quote  the  words  of  Prescott : 
"Her  grief  was  silent  and  settled.  She  continued 
to  watch  the  dead  body  with  the  same  tenderness 
and  attention  as  if  it  had  been  alive,  and  though 
at  last  she  permitted  it  to  be  buried,  she  soon  re 
moved  it  from  the  tomb  to  her  own  apartment;" 
7 


98         A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

and  she  made  it  "her  sole  employment  to  bewail 
the  loss  and  pray  for  the  soul  of  her  husband." 
Of  such  a  weak  though  loyal  and  sorrowing 
mother  was  Charles  V  born  at  Ghent,  February 
24,  1500,  who,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  was  left  by 
the  will  of  his  godfather,  Ferdinand,  sole  heir  of 
his  dominions ;  and  at  the  age  of  nineteen  he  was 
chosen  Emperor  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire. 
Fortune  conspired  to  do  him  homage.  Charles 
was  little  inclined  to  the  study  of  the  humanities, 
but  fond  of  martial  exercise,  and,  though  neglect 
ing  general  learning,  studied,  with  avidity  and 
success,  history  and  the  theory  and  practice  of 
government,  and  accustomed  himself  to  practical 
management  of  affairs  in  the  government  of  the 
Netherlands,  as  early  as  1515  attending  the  de 
liberations  of  the  Privy  Council.  He  was,  as  a 
youth,  a  prince  of  whom  a  realm  would  naturally 
feel  proud,  though  he  scarcely  displayed  those 
qualities  which  were  afterward  his  chief  character 
istics.  In  1516,  King  Ferdinand,  dying,  left 
Cardinal  Ximenes  regent  of  Castile,  thus  bringing 
Charles  into  contact  with  one  of  the  foremost  states 
men  of  Spanish  history.  Ximenes  was  rigorously 
ascetic  in  his  life,  and  absolutely  irreproachable  in 
his  morals,  in  an  age  when  the  clergy  were 
excessively  corrupt.  He  doubled  his  fasts,  wore 
a  hair  shirt,  slept  on  the  bare  ground,  scourged  him 
self  with  assiduity  and  ardor;  became  the  con- 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT  99 

fessor  of  Queen  Isabella,  and  therefore  of  great 
political  importance,  inasmuch  as  she  followed 
his  counsel,  not  alone  in  things  spiritual,  but 
also  in  things  temporal.  Severe  in  his  sanctity, 
he  demanded  the  same  of  his  brethren,  and  re 
formed  the  Franciscans,  over  whom  he  had  been 
put  despite  frantic  opposition.  In  the  face  of  his 
own  disinclination  and  determined  refusal  to  ac 
cept  the  office,  he  was  impelled,  by  means  of  a 
second  papal  bull,  to  accept  the  episcopate  of 
Toledo,  the  'highest  ecclesiastical  honor  in  Spain; 
but  under  his  episcopal  robes  still  wore  his  coarse 
monk's  frock.  The  nobles  of  Castile  were  agreed 
to  intrust  that  kingdom's  affairs  in  his  hands  at 
the  death  of  Philip,  and  after  the  death  of  Ferdi 
nand  the  regency  devolved  upon  him;  and  in 
the  midst  of  a  turbulent  nobility,  he  ruled  as  born 
to  kingship.  Charles  continued'  him  in  power 
after  he  had  assumed  the  kingdom,  but  made  such 
lawless  demands  on  the  Spanish  people  as  to 
bring  Ximenes  into  ill  favor  among  those  for 
whom  he  administered.  At  the  last  he  tasted 
that  ingratitude  so  characteristic  of  Charles,  and 
was  virtually  superseded  in  his  regency,  but  had 
lived  long  enough  to  disclose  a  mind  and  force 
which  entitle  him  to  a  high  rank  among  the 
statesmen  of  the  world.  At  the  beginning  of  his 
reign,  Charles  had  begun  that  series  of  ingrati 
tudes  and  betrayals  which  ended  only  with  his 


ioo       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

abdication.  Charles  V  was  a  braggadocio,  a  ty 
rant,  a  sensualist,  without  honor,  and  without 
nobility.  The  surprise  grows  on  us,  perceiving 
such  a  man  courted,  feted,  honored,  and  arbiter 
of  the  destinies  of  Europe  for  thirty-seven  years. 
I  do  not  find  one  virtue  in  him.  In  Julius 
Csesar,  a  voluptuary  and  red  with  carnage,  there 
were  yet  multitudinous  virtues.  We  do  not  wonder 
men  loved  him  and  were  glad  to  die  for  him.  He 
had  a  soul,  and  honor,  and  remembrance  of 
friendship.  He  was  a  genius,  superlative  and  be 
wildering.  We  car  forget  and  forgive  some  things 
in  such  a  man ;  but  for  such  a  sovereign  as 
Charles  V,  what  can  we  say,  save  that  he  was  not 
so  execrable  as  Philip  II,  his  son?  Charles,  be 
ing  Flemish  in  birth,  both  Flanders  and  himself 
considered  him  less  Spaniard  than  Belgian.  He 
was  Emperor  first  and  King  of  Spain  afterward; 
and  in  Flanders  he  set  the  pageant  of  his  abdi 
cation. 

In  the  court  of  Charles  V,  William  the  Silent 
was  reared,  being  sent  hither  of  his  father,  at 
Charles's  request,  to  be  brought  up  in  the  em 
peror's  household  as  a  prospective  public  serv 
ant,  and  was  dear  to  the  monarch,  so  far  as  any 
one  could  be  dear  to  him ;  and  the  emperor,  at  his 
abdication,  leaned  on  Orange,  then  a  youth  of 
but  twenty-one.  To  what  an  extent  he  compre 
hended  so  humane  a  sentiment,  Charles  had  been 


yOUEHT  COLLECTION 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT  101 

tender  with  the  Netherlands  because  of  his  life 
long  relation  to  its  people.  He  looked  a  Nether 
lander  rather  than  a  Spaniard,  and  felt  one,  so 
that,  so  far  as  he  showed  favors,  he  showed  them 
to  this  opulent  people.  Charles,  with  his  many 
faults,  had  yet  a  rude  geniality,  which  softened  or 
seemed  to  soften  his  asperity  toward  those 
about  him. 

In  Philip,  his  son,  was  not  even  this  slight 
redemptive  quality.  On  October  25,  1555,  at  the 
age  of  fifty-five,  worn  out  prematurely  with 
lecherousness,  gormandizing,  lust  of  power,  and 
recent  defeats,  Charles  V  abdicated  in  favor  of 
his  son,  Philip.  As  they  two  stand  on  the  dais 
at  this  solemn  ceremony,  it  were  well  to  take  a 
close  look  at  father  and  son.  They  are  contrasts, 
as  pronounced  as  valley  and  mountain,  and  yet 
possess  characteristics  of  evil  in  common. 
Charles  was  knit  together  like  an  athlete,  his 
shoulders  were  broad  and  his  chest  deep;  his  face 
was  ugly  to  the  measure  of  hideousness;  his 
lower  jaw  protruded  so  as  to  make  it  impossible 
for  his  teeth  to  meet,  and  his  speech  was  for  that 
reason  barely  intelligible.  A  voracious  eater,  an 
incessant  talker,  adventurous,  a  born  soldier,  fond 
of  tournament,  spectacular  in  war  and  peace  and 
abdication,  now  crippled  in  hands  and  legs,  he 
stands,  a  picture  of  decrepitude,  ready  to  give 
away  a  crown  he  can  no  longer  wear.  Philip,  the 


CIRCULATED 


102       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

son,  is  thin  and  fragile  to  look  upon,  diminutive 
in  stature;  in  face,  resembling  his  father  in 
"heavy,  hanging  lip,  vast  mouth,  and  monstrously 
protruding  lower  jaw.  His  complexion  was  fair, 
his  hair  light  and  thin,  'his  beard  yellow,  short, 
and  pointed.  He  had  the  aspect  of  a  Fleming, 
but  the  loftiness  of  a  Spaniard.  His  demeanor  in 
public  was  silent,  almost  sepulchral.  He  looked 
habitually  on  the  ground  when  he  conversed,  was 
chary  of  speech,  embarrassed,  and  even  suffering 
in  manner."  Such  is  the  new  king  as  we  see  him; 
and  Motley  has  put  our  observations  into  words 
for  us.  But  if  in  looks  there  were  manifest 
resemblances  and  extreme  divergencies,  in  charac 
ter  they  were  wide  apart.  Charles  was  soldier, 
first  and  always ;  Philip  was  a  man  for  the  cabinet, 
having  neither  inclination  nor  ability  for  general 
ship.  To  lead  an  army  was  Charles's  pride  and 
delight — things  Philip  could  not  and  would  not 
attempt.  Charles  was  for  the  open  air,  sky,  con 
tinent;  Philip  was  for  the  cloister,  and  spent  his 
life  immured  as  if  he  had  been  a  monk.  In 
Charles  was  bravado,  impudence,  intolerable  ego 
tism,  atrocious  lack  of  honor,  but  there  was  a  dash 
about  him  as  about  Marshal  Ney  or  Prince  Joachin 
Murat;  Philip  was  stolid,  vindictive,  incapable  of 
enthusiasm  or  friendship.  Charles  ruled  Spain  as 
a  principality;  Philip  held  the  world  as  a  princi 
pality  of  Spain.  As  has  been  indicated,  Charles 


,*  .      .    » 


THE  SILENT  103 

was  Spanish  in  relationship  and  not  in  disposi 
tion;  Philip  was  Spaniard  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
else.  Charles,  if  he  was  anything,  was  brilliant; 
Philip  was  as  lacking  in  color  as  a  bank  of  winter 
clouds,  no  more  conceiving  brilliancy  than  he  con 
ceived  of  greatness  of  soul  or  manly  honor. 

In  Spanish  character  were  chivalrous  qualities, 
mixed  with  ferocity  and  pitiless  cruelty.  Pizarro 
and  Cortes  were  attractive;  we  like  to  look  at 
them  a  second  time.  Much  we  condemn,  but 
much  we  admire.  Their  sagacity,  their  prowess, 
their  heroic  spirit,  take  us  captive  despite  their 
baser  qualities.  In  them  was  duplicity,  revenge, 
bigotry,  iheathenish  cruelty;  but  these  were  not 
all  the  qualities  the  inventory  discovered.  In 
Philip,  however,  were  all  the  Spanish  villainies 
without  the  Spanish  virtues.  He  is  blessed  with 
scarcely  a  redeeming  quality.  His  excellencies 
were  a  stolid  inability  to  believe  himself  defeated, 
which,  had  it  been  joined  to  patriotism  and  intel 
ligent  action,  had  risen  to  the  heroic ;  he  was  loyal  to 
his  convictions ;  and  he  was  painstakingly  laborious, 
and  worked  in  his  cabinet  like  a  paid  clerk.  In 
truth,  his  disposition  for  and  ability  to  work  are 
among  the  most  marked  instances  in  history.  Not 
Julius  Caesar  himself  worked  with  more  unflagging 
industry.  But  Philip  had  no  illuminated  moments. 
His  toil  was  blind,  like  a  mole's  progress.  He 
read  and  annotated  all  state  dispatches;  wrote 


A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

many  long  epistles  with  his  own  hand,  eschewing 
secretarial  aid.  He  had  a  mind  capacious  for 
minutiae ;  was  colossally  egotistical ;  was  as  little  cast 
down  by  defeat  as  elevated  by  triumph,  which 
is  in  itself  a  quality  of  heroic  mold,  but  viewed 
narrowly  turns  out  to  be  imperturbable  phlegmati- 
cism  and  self-assurance,  which  simply  underrated 
disasters,  making  himself  oblivious  to  them  as  if 
they  did  not  exist.  He  was  possessor  of  the 
greatest  realm  ever  swayed  by  a  single  scepter. 
He  affected  to  be  proprietor  of  the  seas;  he 
thought  Flanders  a  garden  to  be  tilled  to  supply 
his  table,  and  its  wealth,  gold  for  him  to  squander 
on  Armadas.  Italian  provinces  were  his,  and 
Spain  was  his;  and  the  Western  Hemisphere,  by 
his  own  daring  assumption,  and  the  generosity  of 
the  papal  gift,  and  the  toils  of  Ponce  de  Leon  and 
de  Soto  and  Coronado  and  Pizarro  and  Cortes, 
was  his.  Compared  with  the  wide  and  bewilder 
ing  extent  of  his  kingdom,  the  Roman  Empire 
was  a  dukedom.  His  empire  spurred  him  to 
world-dominion,  and  he  used  his  patrimony  and 
its  fabulous  wealth  to  attempted  enforcement  of 
his  claim  to  the  sovereignty  of  England  and  West 
ern  Europe.  His  ambition  was  in  nothing  less 
than  Alexander's,  but  his  conception  of  means 
adequate  to  campaigns  was  meager.  A  task  he 
could  see  and  a  kingdom  he  could  desire,  but 
adequacy  of  preparation  for  world-conquest  never 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT  105 

crept  into  his  thought.  He  was  as  niggardly  in 
supplying  his  generals  and  armies  as  Queen  Eliza 
beth,  and  all  but  as  voluble  in  abuse  of  his  serv 
ants  in  the  field  or  cabinet,  and  as  thankless  to 
those  who  had  wrought  his  will.  Parma,  and 
Requesens,  and  Don  John,  and  Alva,  he  drove 
almost  frantic  by  his  excessive  demands  and  ex 
pectations,  coupled  with  his  entire  inadequacy  in 
preparation  and  supplies.  His  soldiers  were  al 
ways  on  the  point  of  mutiny  for  food,  or  clothing, 
or  pay,  or  all  together.  However,  this  ought  in 
fairness  to  be  said,  that  the  only  contemporary 
Government  which  did  pay  its  soldiers  promptly 
and  fairly  was  the  Netherlands,  one  reason  worth 
weighing  why,  under  Prince  Maurice  in  particular, 
Flemish  armies  made  such  vigorous  head  against 
Spanish  aggressions. 

Just  two  people  Philip  gave  consideration  to — 
himself  and  the  pope.  His  narrow  nature,  while 
not  capable  of  enthusiasm,  was  capable  of  a  tena 
cious  and  unflagging  loyalty.  What  in  a  manly 
spirit  or  in  a  martyr  would  h'ave  bloomed  into 
nobility,  devotion,  and  self-sacrifice,  in  a  man  like 
Philip  became  a  settled  cruelty  and  bigotry  which 
finds  few  parallels  in  the  annals  of  the  world. 
He  was  a  creature  of  the  Church,  as  he  conceived 
all  in  his  dominions  were  creatures  to  him. 
Free  will  and  the  right  to  conviction  he  did  not 
claim  for  himself  and  would  not  consider  for 


106       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,E: 

others.  The  world  was  an  autocracy,  universal, 
necessary,  the  pope  as  chief  tyrant  and  Philip 
under-lord — he  must  obey  the  pope;  the  people 
must  obey  him.  To  Philip  these  conclusions  were 
axiomatic,  and  therefore  not  subjects  for  debate. 
That  all  his  subjects  did  not  readily  concede  to 
him  the  right  to  be  the  director  of  their  conscience 
was  looked  upon  as  unreasoning  stubbornness,  to 
be  punished  with  block  and  rack,  and  prison  and 
stake. 

Philip  is  anomalous.  We  can  not  get  into  a 
mind  like  his.  Statesman  he  was  not;  for  the 
nurture  of  national  wealth,  such  as  Cromwell  and 
Caesar  planned  for,  he  was  incapable  of.  His 
idea  of  statesmanship  was  that  his  kingdom  was 
a  cask,  into  which  he  should  insert  a  spigot  and 
draw.  This  was  government  of  an  ideal  order, 
Philip  being  judge.  The  divine  right  of  kings 
was  a  foregone  conclusion,  antagonism  to  which 
was  heresy.  Here  let  us  not  blame  Philip;  for 
this  was  the  temper  of  his  era,  and  to  have  antici 
pated  in  him  larger  views  than  those  of  his  con 
temporaries  is  not  just.  To  this  notion  was  his 
whole  nature  keyed.  He  commanded  the  Nether 
lands  to  be  faithful  Catholics.  What  more  was 
needed?  Let  this  be  the  end.  So  reasoned  the 
Spanish  autocrat;  and  fealty  to  religious  convic 
tions  on  his  subjects'  part  seemed  to  him  noth 
ing  but  settled  obstinacy,  to  be  burned  out  with 


THE   SlIvENT  IO7 

martyrs'  fires  or  cut  out  with  swords  swung  by 
Alva's  cruel  hands. 

Philip  was  the  ideal  bigot.  How  far  bigotry 
is  native  to  the  soul  may  well  be  a  question  for 
grave  discussion,  demanding  possibly  more  atten 
tion  than  has  been  accorded  it  hitherto.  And 
how  far  is  bigotry  to  be  looked  on  as  a  vice? 
Though  this  question  will  be  laughed  down,  as 
if  to  ask  it  were  to  stultify  the  asker;  but  not  so 
fast,  since  bigotry  is  not  all  bad.  To  hold  an 
opinion  is  considered  a  virtue.  To  hold  an  opinion 
of  righteousness  against  all  odds  for  conscience* 
sake,  we  rightly  account  heroism.  Is  not  a  lover 
or  a  patriot  a  bigot?  Or  if  not,  where  does  he 
miss  of  being?  We  are  to  hold  opinion  and  not 
become  opinionated,  a  thing  discovered  to  be 
difficult  in  an  extreme  degree. 

Bigotry  is  an  excess  of  a  virtue,  and  to  .pass 
from  conscientiousness  to  bigotry  is  not  a  long 
nor  difficult  journey.  All  views  are  not  equally 
true.  This  every  sane  mind  holds  as  self-evident. 
There  is  a  liberalism  at  this  point  which  would 
run,  if  let  go  its  logical  course,  to  the  sophist 
fallacy  that  truth  did  not  exist,  and  therefore  one 
view  was  as  just  as  another — an  attitude  repugnant 
to  all  fine  ethical  natures.  Now,  conceiving  we 
have  the  truth,  we  must,  in  reason  and  in  con 
science,  be  in  so  far  intolerant  to  those  who  an 
tagonize  the  truth.  The  theist  is  intolerant  toward 


io8      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

the  atheist;  truth  is  intolerant  toward  falsehood; 
good  is  intolerant  toward  evil;  God  intolerant 
toward  sin.  Righteousness  is  always  intolerant; 
and  any  one  advocating  unlimited  intellectual 
tolerance  is  breaking  down  the  primary  distinctions 
between  falsehood  and  truth.  Some  things  are 
true  and  their  opposites  false.  Jesus  put  the  case 
in  an  immortal  phrase:  "Ye  can  not  serve  God 
and  Mammon."  The  query,  then,  is,  Where  does 
this  intolerance  of  truth  pass  into  bigotry?  For 
I  think  it  easy  to  see  that  this  passage  is  but  a 
step,  nor  is  the  dividing  line  so  easy  to  discover 
as  we  might  wish.  Ask  this  question,  to  illustrate 
our  dilemma,  "What  is  the  difference  between 
legitimate  competition  and  monopoly?"  An  an 
swer  rises  to  the  lip  instanter,  but  is  no  sooner 
given  than  perceived  to  be  invalid.  A  like  close 
ness  of  relation  exists  between  the  virtue  of  in 
tolerance  and  the  vice  of  intolerance,  a  synonym 
of  which  is  bigotry.  Virtue  is  intolerant  of  vice, 
and  there  are  great  verities  in  the  kingdom  of 
God  to  be  held  if  life  must  pay  the  price  of  their 
retention.  This  is  the  explanation  of  martyrs, 
whose  office  is  to  witness  to  truth  by  cross  and 
sword  and  fagot.  The  Reformation  stands  for 
the  right  of  free  judgment  in  things  appertaining 
to  religion,  thought,  and  politics.  Luther  was 
liberator  of  Europe,  and  through  Europe  of  the 
world,  in  the  three  departments  where  life  lives 


WIUJAM  THE  SILENT  109 

its  thrilling  story.  A  tolerant  intolerance  holds 
with  strong  hand  to  truth,  but  demands  for  others 
what  it  demands  for  itself;  namely,  the  right  to 
interpret  and  follow  truth  so  far  as  such  pro 
cedure  does  not  interfere  with  the  rights  of  an 
other.  Tolerance  of  this  sort  does  not  destroy, 
nor  yet  surrender,  conviction.  Bigotry  demands 
the  enforcement  of  its  opinions  upon  all,  and  is 
a  reign  of  compulsion.  Applying  this  argument 
to  Philip,  a  noteworthy  bigot,  we  see  how  it  was 
his  right  to  be  a  Roman  Catholic  and  to  be  a 
zealous  propagandist,  since  kingship  does  not 
hinder  a  king  from  being  a  man,  with  a  man's 
religious  rights  and  duties.  Philip's  fault  lay  in 
his  not  allowing  to  others  the  right  of  religious 
freedom  himself  possessed.  He  stands,  to  this 
hour,  a  perfect  specimen  of  intolerance. 

Under  sovereignty  such  as  this  was  William 
the  Silent  citizen.  William,  Prince  of  Orange,  was 
born  in  Nassau,  April  23,  1533,  and  was  assas 
sinated  at  the  convent  of  St.  Agatha,  in  Delft, 
July  10,  1584,  when  a  trifle  over  fifty-one  years 
of  age.  Let  us  get  our  chronological  bearings 
accurately:  Luther  died  in  1546;  Lepanto  was 
fought  in  1571 ;  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew 
occurred  in  1572;  the  Invincible  Armada  was 
destroyed  in  1588;  Philip  was  crowned  king  in 
October  of  1555,  and  died  at  the  Escurial  in  1598; 
the  Spanish  Inquisition  was  established  in  1480 


no      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

by  Ferdinand  and  Isabella;  the  Edict  of  Nantes 
was  promulgated  in  1.598;  Queen  Elizabeth 
Tudor  ascended  her  throne  in  1558;  America 
received  her  first  permanent  colony  in  1585,  at  St. 
Augustine,  Florida.  From  this  assemblage  of 
dates,  we.  see  in  what  a  ferment  of  momentous 
civil,  religious,  and  political  events  the  Prince  of 
Orange  found  his  life  cast.  We  may  not  choose 
our  time  to  live,  not  yet  our  time  to  die ;  but  some 
eras  are  spacious  above  others,  not  length,  but 
achievement,  making  an  age  illustrious.  William 
the  Silent's  age  was  a  maelstrom  of  events,  and 
there  were  no  quiet  waters ;  and  this  appears 
certain:  The  dominant  force  of  those  turbulent 
times  was  religious,  by  which  I  mean  that  religion 
is  the  key  of  all  movements,  politics  being  shaped 
by  theological  dogmas  and  purposes.  These 
dates  certify  to  the  omnipresence  of  religious 
movement;  for  the  Inquisition,  Lepanto,  the  great 
Armada,  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  the  Massacre  of  St. 
Bartholomew,  are  all  ecclesiastical  in  intent,  by 
which  is  not  at  all  meant  they  were  good,  but  were 
perverted  religious  views,  in  which  human  wicked 
ness,  ambition,  and  bigotry  pre-empted  religion, 
and  used  it  as  a  medium  of  expression,  and  in 
turn  were  used  by  the  thing  they  had  fostered. 
No  more  prevalent  misconception  prevails  than 
that  religion  is  the  cause  of  outrageous  violence, 
disorder,  and  misconduct;  the  truth  being,  rather, 


THE   SlIyENT  III 

men's  passions,  under  guise  of  religion,  rush  their 
own  wanton  course.  In  this  particular  era  of  his 
tory,  all  movements  were  religious,  as  has  been 
shown;  and  Philip  thought  himself  the  apostle  of 
religion,  chosen  of  God,  and  was  used  by  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church,  and,  as  a  wise  historian 
affirms,  "In  fanatical  enthusiasm  for  Catholicism, 
he  was  surpassed  by  no  man  who  ever  lived."  His 
religion  and  his  ambition  were  fellow-conspirators. 
Philip  II  of  Spain  was  a  Roman  Catholic  fanatic; 
Charles  IX  of  France  was  a  weak  mind,  of  no 
definite  religious  conviction,  but  used  by  the 
Catholics  to  bring  about  the  massacre  of  seventy 
thousand  Huguenots;  Henry  IV  of  France  was 
probably  a  Huguenot  in  genuine  feeling,  but  a 
political  trimmer,  a  daring  and  brilliant  soldier,  a 
frenzied  devotee  of  women,  religion  giving  him 
small  concern,  and  his  change  from  Huguenotism 
to  Catholicism  a  circumstance  as  trifling  as  the 
exchange  of  his  hunter's  paraphernalia  for  court 
apparel ;  Queen  Elizabeth  was  as  nearly  devoid 
of  religious  instincts  as  is  possible  for  a  woman, 
though  her  purposes  and  position  in  politics  drove 
her  to  the  Protestant  cause;  William  of  Orange 
was  born  a  Protestant,  reared  a  Catholic,  first  in 
the  household  of  the  Regent  of  the  Low  coun 
tries,  and  afterward  at  the  court  of  Charles  V, 
suffered  revulsion  of  sentiment  under  the  unthink 
able  atrocities  of  the  Inquisition  as  carried  on  in 


ii2       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

the  Netherlands,  till  at  last  he  became  a  Protest 
ant  of  the  most  pronounced  and  honest  type. 

In  Prince  William's  time,  modern  Europe  was 
in  the  alembic,  a  circumstance  which  makes  his 
epoch  so  engrossing  to  the  student  of  modern  his 
tory.  Protestantism  became  a  new  political,  social, 
intellectual,  and  religious  order.  Even  apart 
from  his  religious  significance,  Martin  Luther  is 
the  marked  figure  of  the  sixteenth  century.  Co 
lumbus  discovered  a  New  World;  Luther  peopled 
it  with  civil  and  religious  forces.  Puritanism  was 
the  flower  of  that  'earlier-day  Protestantism. 
Besides,  the  Walloons  settled  New  Amsterdam; 
the  Huguenots,  the  Carolinas;  the  Anglicans, 
Virginia;  the  Lutherans,  New  Sweden.  From 
the  standpoint  of  statesmanship,  Luther  was 
shaping  peoples  for  a  New  World,  and  was  the 
commanding  personality  of  those  stormy  years  in 
which,  like  a  warrior  who  never  knew  fatigue,  he 
fought  the  battles  of  the  living  God.  Unquestion 
ably,  the  Reformation  meant  liberty  in  conscience, 
intellect  and  citizenship,  which  are  the  quint 
essence  of  modern  civilization.  In  those  years, 
during  which  William  the  Silent  was  a  prodigious 
force,  Protestantism  was  troubling  the  waters. 
New  religious  ideas  must  ultimate  in  new  political 
institutions,  of  which  the  Dutch  Republic  was  a 
sort  of  first  draft,  and  the  United  States  of 
America  an  edited  and  perfected  draft. 


WIUJAM  THE  SILENT  113 

Protestantism  was  in  justifiable  revolt  against 
Roman  Catholicism,  a  foe  to  progress  and  liberty 
in  religion,  then  and  now,  and  now  not  less  than 
then.  It  was  intolerance  run  mad,  whose  method 
was  the  Inquisition.  One  can  not  say  a  good  word 
for  this  system,  where  Jesuitism  finds  home  and 
inspiration,  where  the  end  justifies  the  means,  and 
any  diabolism  passes  for  saintliness  if  done  for  the 
advancement  of  the  "true  faith."  Yet  here,  as  al 
ways,  we  must  be  on  guard,  supposing  this  to 
be  a  fruit  of  religion;  rather  is  it  selfish  human 
nature,  taking  an  ecclesiastical  system  to  do 
business  in,  thus  availing  itself  of  the  religious 
impulse  in  the  soul  to  work  out  a  purely  earthly 
interest.  Early  Christianity,  as  all  pure  Chris 
tianity,  presses  Christ's  method  of  making  appeal 
to  the  individual,  impressing  him  with  a  sense 
of  his  sin  and  his  lost  estate;  of  the  necessity 
of  repentance ;  of  salvation  from  sin  by  faith  in  a 
Divine  Christ.  When  Christianity  came  to  the 
throne  with  Constantine,  when  ultimately  masses 
of  people  were  baptized  on  compulsion,  Christian 
ity  took  on  the  pomp  and  paraphernalia  of  hea 
thenism,  so  as  to  make  appeal  to  the  sensuous 
element  in  heathen  nature;  in  a  word,  Christianity 
became  as  much  or  more  heathen  than  Christian, 
and  this  mongrel  of  Christianity  and  heathenism 
is  Roman  Catholicism.  Root,  stem,  and  branch, 
it  is  hostile  to  the  Word  of  God,  and,  as  every 
8 


ii4       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

such  system  must  do,  darkened  the  consciences 
of  men.  We  may  not  forget,  however,  its  essen 
tial  religious  and  scholastic  services  in  earlier 
years,  nor  that  it  has  nurtured  some  of  tlhe  saints 
among  the  centuries.  Catholicism  has  a  basis  of 
Christianity,  and,  could  the  excrescences  be  hewn 
away,  and  this  foundation  be  again  discovered, 
then  for  Roman  Catholicism  would  dawn  a  new 
and  greater  era.  But  as  the  system  stands,  it  af 
fected  temporal  sovereignty,  it  humbled  kings,  and 
gave  away  empires.  Pope  Leo  X  was  not  a  bad 
man,  being  so  far  superior  to  Alexander  XII  as 
to  preclude  comparison.  Many  popes  had  been  so 
vile  as  to  have  shocked  even  the  moral  indiffer 
ence  of  those  times ;  but  Leo  X,  son  of  Lorenzo 
the  Magnificent,  heir  of  the  traditions  in  com 
panionship  and  the  humanities  which  had  made 
Florence  illustrious, — Leo,  cultivated,  brilliant, 
clean  in  his  personal  life,  had  assembled  around 
him  men  reasonably  good.  His  aesthetic  inclina 
tions  were  running  him  deeply  in  debt,  and  to  fill 
the  bankrupt  treasury,  His  Holiness  commissioned 
Tetzel  to  sell  indulgences — a  practice  repugnant  to 
moral  instinct,  to  the  dignity  of  the  Church,  and 
the  honor  of  our  God,  and  yet  a  practice  contin 
ued  by  Romanism  in  our  own  day  and  under  our 
own  eyes.  To  suppose  that  Romanism  has  re 
formed  is  current  with  intelligent  persons,  though 
no  supposition  could  be  more  erroneous.  All  those 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT  115 

beliefs  prevalent  in  the  days  of  Luther  are  affirmed 
at  this  hour,  with  the  addition  of  the  doctrine  of 
papal  infallibility  and  the  immaculate  conception. 
To-day  indulgences  are  sold  in  the  United  States, 
noticeably  so  in  Arizona;  and  a  son  of  a  bishop 
in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  because  his 
name  chanced  to  have  a  foreign  flavor,  was  writ 
ten  to  and  offered  one  year's  indulgences  for  twenty- 
five  dollars!  Catholicism  has  not  changed.  The 
Inquisition  was  abolished  in  Spain  by  Napoleon 
in  1808,  re-established  after  the  Spaniards  had  re- 
assumed  their  government,  and  finally  abolished 
by  the  Cortes  in  1820.  The  system  of  Catholicism 
is  leprous,  and  in  the  age  of  William  the  Silent 
had  power  and  political  ascendency  so  as  to  com 
mand  rack  and  fagot,  and  dungeons  so  deep  as 
that  from  them  no  cry  could  reach  any  ear  save 
God's;  and  in  the  person  of  the  mean,  sullen,  and 
indefatigable  Philip  had  apt  instrument. 

When  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  ambassador 
in  the  court  of  France,  Henry  II,  supposing  him 
to  be  privy  to  his  master's  plans,  on  a  hunting- 
excursion,  casually  mentioned  a  private  treaty 
with  Alva  to  join  with  Philip  to  exterminate 
heresy  from  their  joint  kingdoms.  Small  wonder 
if  Orange,  riding  beside  French  royalty  that  day, 
grew  pitiful  toward  unsuspicious,  doomed  thou 
sands,  and  pitiless  toward  Philip  and  his  Spanish 
soldiers  and  followers,  or  that,  to  use  his  own 


n6       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

words  from  the  famous  "Apology,"  "From  that 
moment  I  determined  in  earnest  to  clear  the 
Spanish  venom  from  the  land."  Watch  his  flushed 
face;  his  eyes,  like  coals  taken  fresh  from  an  altar 
of  vengeance;  his  hand,  nervously  fingering  his 
sword-hilt;  his  form,  dilating  as  if  for  the  first 
time  he  guessed  he  had  come  to  manlhood, — and 
I  miss  in  reckoning  if  we  are  not  looking  on  the 
person  of  a  patriot.  For  this  William  of  Orange 
and  Nassau  is  William  the  Silent,  keeping  his 
dreadful  secret;  but  keeping  the  secret,  too,  that 
the  Inquisition  and  Catholicism,  and  Spain,  and 
Philip  have  an  enemy  whose  hostility  can  only  be 
silenced  by  a  bullet.  The  day  the  French  king 
gave  William  this  fatal  confidence  was  an  epoch 
in  the  life  of  William  and  of  Europe. 

His  life  divides  into  two  periods,  this  dialogue 
between  himself  and  Henry  II  closing  the  one 
and  opening  the  other.  With  that  fatal  confidence 
his  youth  ended  and  his  manhood  began.  Get  a 
closer  view  of  his  youth.  From  his  fifteenth  to 
his  twenty-first  year  he  was  in  constant  attend 
ance  at  the  court  of  Charles  V,  who  loved, 
trusted,  and  honored  him.  He  was  at  this  age, 
rich,  frivolous,  spendthrift ;  in  short,  a  petted  noble 
man  of  the  greatest  monarch  in  Christendom. 
He  had  evident  gifts;  was  generous  to  lavishness; 
mortgaged  his  estate  to  gratify  his  luxurious 
tastes ;  was  given  to  political  expediency,  caring 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT  117 

less  for  conviction  than  popularity  with  his  sover 
eign;  wearing  his  religion,  if  he  may  be  said  to 
have  possessed  any,  as  lightly  as  a  lady's  favor; 
lacking  in  reverence,  he  was  flippant  rather  than 
irreligious,  but  a  youth  of  fashion,  pleasure,  and 
luxury.  Charles  V,  discovering  in  him  extraor 
dinary  parts,  invested  him,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two,  with  command  of  the  imperial  forces  before 
Marienburg,  and  at  his  abdication  leaned  affec 
tionately  on  William's  shoulder.  Count  Egmont 
alone  excepted,  Orange  was  the  most  distinguished 
Flemish  nobleman  who  passed  from  Charles  to 
Philip  as  part  of  the  emperor's  bequest.  Early 
in  Philip's  reign,  Orange  was  made  one  of  the 
king's  counselors  and  Knight  of  the  Golden 
Fleece,  at  that  time  most  coveted  and  honorable 
of  any  military  knighthood.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-six,  he  was  one  of  the  peace  commissioners 
between  Henry  II  and  Philip  II,  and  at  this  time 
he  came  into  possession  of  that  secret  which 
changed  his  life.  Here  ends  the  youth  of  William 
of  Nassau.  Let  us  get  this  man  more  clearly 
in  the  eye.  He  was  above  middle  height,  spare, 
sinewy;  dark  in  complexion;  >had  gentle  brown 
eyes,  auburn  hair  and  beard;  face  thin,  nose 
aquiline;  head  small,  but  well  formed;  his  hair 
luxuriant,  his  beard  trimmed  to  a  point;  about  his 
neck  the  superb  collar  of  the  Golden  Fleece.  He 
is  married,  and  his  home  is  Breda. 


n8       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Between  the  young  king  and  his  Flemish 
Stadtholder  was  never  any  warmth  of  feeling. 
When  Orange,  pursuant  to  'his  resolution  formed 
in  the  French  king's  presence,  spurred  the  States 
to  demand  the  removal  of  the  Spanish  soldiers 
from  the  Netherlands,  with  a  pertinacity  dogged 
and  changeless  till  the  king,  in  sheer  desperation, 
acquiesced  in  the  just  demand,  though  with  a 
chagrin  of  spirit  toward  the  instrument  of  his 
defeat  which  became  settled  hatred,  and  never 
lifted  from  his  heart  for  a  moment  in  those  long 
succeeding  years,  when  the  king,  like  a  recluse  in 
the  Escurial,  brooded  over  his  defeat.  His  troops 
forced  from  Flemish  territories,  Philip  himself  de 
parted  from  a  region  he  had  never  loved  and 
had  scarcely  tolerated,  departed,  not  to  return 
any  more,  save  by  proxy  of  fire  and  sword,  and 
cruel  soldiery,  and  more  cruel  generals — the  piti 
less  Parmas  and  Alvas — and  departing,  he  em 
braced  the  other  noblemen  with  such  cold  warmth 
as  was  native  to  him,  but  upbraided  Orange  bit 
terly  for  the  action  of  the  States,  and  when 
Orange  replied  the  action  was  not  his,  but  the 
States-General,  Philip,  beside  himself  with  rage, 
cried,  "Not  the  States,  but  you !  you !  you !"  Thus 
King  Philip  passed  into  Spain,  and  the  Prince  of 
Orange  into  the  second  era  of  his  life. 

Macaulay  has  written  the  life  of  William  III 
with  such  warmth,  glow,  fullness,  and  art  as  to 


THK  SILENT  119 

have  rendered  other  biographies  superfluous.  The 
history  of  William  III  was  the  history  of  England 
during  his  reign.  He  was  England  at  its  best. 
William  the  Silent  was  the  Netherlands  at  their  best. 
Motley  has  written  "The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Re 
public,"  and  in  so  doing  has  written  a  glowing 
narrative  of  the  origin  of  the  Netherland  Republic ; 
and  has  besides,  in  the  same  breath,  given  a  bi 
ography  of  William  the  Silent.  What  nobler 
eulogy  could  be  pronounced  than  to  say  a  man's 
life  was  his  country's  history  during  'his  lifetime? 
Motley's  thrilling  narrative  is  the  worthiest  life  of 
William  written.  Read  Motley,  and  the  last  great 
est  word  shall  have  been  told  you  regarding  this 
hero  of  the  sixteenth  century.  In  Prescott's 
"Philip  the  Second"  may  be  found  an  incomplete 
characterization  -of  the  prince,  without  the  unfavor 
able  attitude  toward  Philip  or  the  laudatory  view 
of  William  presented  in  Motley.  These  two 
American  historians  have  approached  their  theme 
with  such  ampleness  of  scholastic  research  and 
elaborate  access  to  and  use  of  the  correspondence 
of  Margaret,  Parma,  Alva,  Granvelle,  Don  John 
of  Austria,  William,  and  Philip,  as  practically  to 
exhaust  the  sources  of  information  on  this  tragic 
reign,  at  the  same  time  shutting  off  much  of  pos 
sibility  from  the  future  historian.  William  has  at 
last,  in  Motley,  found  a  biographer  for  whom  any 
illustrious  character  might  be  thankful.  So  elabo- 


120       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOL,K 

rate  and  complete  were  these  researches  that  Miss 
Putnam,  in  her  "William  the  Silent/'  has  scarcely 
developed  a  single  new  fact,  and  has  in  all  cases 
conceded  the  thoroughness  and  sufficiency  of 
Motley's  investigations.  The  present  writer's 
apology  for  attempting  what  has  been  done  so 
incomparably  well  is,  that  he  feels  an  essay  of 
moderate  length,  which,  because  of  its  brevity, 
may  find  an  audience,  is  a  desideratum  in  English 
literature,  this  essay  to  point  out  the  heroic  pro 
portions  of  William;  enough  so,  if  may  be,  to 
lend  eagerness  to  those  who  read,  so  they  may 
be  decoyed  into  perusing  Motley's  noble  histories. 
I  would  help  a  reader  of  this  essay  to  see  the  theater 
and  actors,  and  to  that  end  lift  this  curtain. 

Philip  having,  on  August  26,  1559,  sailed  from 
Flushing,  Spainward,  William's  lifework  properly 
began.  At  this  date,  his  attitude  has  not  devel 
oped,  but  stands  as  a  block  of  marble  a  sculptor 
has  chiseled  enough  to  show  a  statue  is  intended, 
but  not  sufficiently  to  disclose  the  sculptor's  pur 
pose.  One  thing  alone  was  definite  and  unalter 
able,  to  combat  the  introduction  of  the  Inquisi 
tion  and  the  extermination  of  the  Protestant 
Netherlanders  by  aid  from  the  Spanish  soldiery. 
The  first  checkmate  given  Philip's  nefarious 
scheme  was  when  the  States-General  compelled 
his  removal  of  the  troops,  though  at  this  time 
William  was  still  Catholic  in  religion  and  a  loyal 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT  121 

subject  of  Philip,  being  in  no  sense  a  revolutionist. 
He  was  easily  the  first  citizen  of  the  Netherlands; 
twenty-six  years  of  age;  not  matured,  but  matur 
ing  ;  not  faultless,  but  in  process  of  being  fashioned 
for  a  distinguished  career  of  patriotism  and 
catholicity.  Our  full  selves  bloom  slowly.  Our 
life  is  no  mushroom,  but  a  tree,  and  a  tree  requires 
long  growth-periods.  Orange  was  so.  A  grave, 
moral,  and  patriotic  purpose  in  itself  suffices  to 
shape  a  career  of  grandeur  and  service.  Had  he 
been  told  he  would  die  a  Protestant  and  a  rebel, 
he  would  have  been  instant  to  deny  the  charge, 
and  this  through  no  duplicity,  but  from  lack  of 
knowledge  of  his  own  soul  temper,  coupled  with 
an  inability  to  forecast  a  stormy  future.  We  can 
not  walk  by  sight  in  action  and  politics  any  more 
than  in  religion — a  thing  the  prince  found  out  as 
the  turbulent  years  passed.  He  has  been  vehe 
mently  accused  of  duplicity.  He  has  been  depicted 
as  hypocrite  and  plotter  against  his  rightful 
sovereign.  I  find  no  marks  of  this  on  him. 
That  he  had  ambition  is  not  to  be  argued;  but 
ambition  is  no  sin  if  worthily  directed.  He  did 
things  not  consonant  with  our  ethics,  belonging, 
in  that  sense,  to  his  age,  an  age  of  diplomatic 
duplicity.  He  did  not  tell  all  he  knew.  He  had 
in  his  pay  the  king's  private  secretary,  and  received 
a  copy  of  any  letter  the  king  wrote;  and  when  at 
last  the  secretary's  treason  was  discovered,  he 


122      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

paid  the  penalty  of  his  perfidy  by  being  torn  in 
pieces  by  four  horses ;  yet  bribery  of  employees 
was  common  then,  and  was  a  practice  of  every 
potentate,  and  was  what  Philip  did  in  every  court 
in  Christendom.  Absolute  fealty  was  all  but 
unknown.  Each  man  was  believed  to  have  his 
price,  and  the  belief,  in  most  instances,  was  not 
erroneous.  Besides,  William  was  in  a  state  of  per 
petual  war  with  Philip,  and  war  makes  its  own 
code,  and  justifies  the  otherwise  unjustifiable,  and 
but  for  this  subtle  surveillance  of  the  king's  in 
tention,  no  stand  could  have  been  made  against  his 
treachery  and  encroachments;  for  he  was  the  sum 
of  duplicities,  deceiving  everybody,  those  nearest 
to  him  and  most  intimately  in  his  counsels  no 
less  than  his  foes.  Duplicity  was  native  to  him 
as  respiration.  Granvelle,  who  in  treacherous 
diplomacy  was  not  inferior  to  Macchiavelli,  him 
Philip  deceived.  Such  a  king,  William  met  by 
finesse  and  deception  against  finesse  and  decep 
tion.  To  judge  a  statesman  of  the  sixteenth  cen 
tury  by  the  ethics  of  the  nineteenth  century  is 
studied  injustice.  He  is  accused  of  evasion  in  his 
marriage  with  Anne  of  Saxony,  and  the  accusa 
tion  is,  in  my  conviction,  just;  but  probably  at 
that  juncture  in  his  career  his  religious  notions 
were  in  a  state  of  ferment,  himself  as  yet  knowing 
not  what  he  would  be.  In  any  case,  however,  to 
use  the  words  of  Putnam,  "From  the  expediency 


THE   SILENT  123 

of  his  youth  he  grew  gradually  to  a  high  stand 
ard  of  'honor."  In  the  stress  of  the  battle  for 
liberty,  when  he  was  reduced  to  counting  his  very 
garments,  his  luxurious  habits  slipped  from  him, 
and  disinterestedness  grew  upon  him.  Cromwell 
was  formed  when  first  we  saw  him ;  Orange  grows 
before  our  eyes,  as  we  have  watched  the  blooming 
of  some  sacred  flower.  Orange  was  no  saint. 
Who  so  thinks  him,  thinks  amiss.  He  had 
manifold  faults,  as  what  man  has  not?  But 
that  the  growing  purpose  of  his  life  was  heroic 
and  single,  and  that  he  devoted  a  laborious  man 
hood  to  the  enfranchisement  of  his  country  and 
religion,  no  fair  historian  can  deny.  His  career 
naturally  oscillated  between  the  general  and  the 
statesman,  the  statesman  being  in  the  ascendant. 
Some  men  are  primarily  soldiers ;  secondarily, 
statesmen;  as  was  Sulla  or  Marlborough.  In 
others,  the  statesman  stands  first,  the  soldier  in 
them  being  second,  as  in  Julius  Caesar,  whose  wid 
est  achievements  always  spring  out  of  his  states 
manship  as  naturally  as  a  plant  out  of  the  soil. 
At  this  point,  Caesar  and  William  the  Silent 
touch,  by  which  is  not  meant  that  in  either  field 
William  approximates  Caesar;  for  Julius  Caesar  is 
one  of  the  few  greatest  products  of  the  world. 
William  fought  because  he  must;  he  was  states 
man  because  he  would. 

Philip   never   swerved   from   his   purpose;   but 


124       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K; 

though  his  Armadas  were  wrecked  and  his 
treasure  galleons  seized,  in  his  cabinet  he  set 
himself  to  rigorous  purpose,  demanding  impos 
sibilities  of  his  commanders,  paying  his  soldiers 
ill  if  at  all,  equipping  his  expeditions  insuffi 
ciently,  but  never  failing  in  his  demands  on 
his  servants.  In  harmony  with  this  dogged  per 
sistency  of  purpose,  he  never  changed  from  his 
plan  of  making  the  Netherlands  Roman  Catholic, 
giving  his  subjects'  scruples  no  thought.  He 
had  commanded — let  that  suffice;  his  instruments 
Margaret,  and  Alva,  and  Requesens,  and  Don 
John,  and  Parma,  and  the  Inquisition,  with  which 
atrocious  instrument  of  propagandism  the  reader 
is  doubtless  familiar.  To  1546  no  symptom  of  dis 
loyalty  toward  the  king  is  visible  in  William;  he 
was  jubilant  rather,  feeling  the  grievances  could 
be  remedied  if  only  Cardinal  Granvelle's  authority 
were  lessened.  His  own  involved  finances  troubled 
him,  and  to  them  he  gave  such  vigilant  attention 
as  to  reduce  his  debts  to  the  point  where  they 
gave  him  no  concern.  Above  financial  difficulties, 
were  those  connected  with  his  wife,  Anne,  who 
proved  half-mad  and  wholly  lacking  in  virtue, 
though,  in  -truth,  her  life  was  far  from  being  a 
joyous  one,  if  such  were  possible  to  a  character 
like  hers.  How  much  of  blame  attaches  to  the 
prince  for  this  estrangement  can  not  now  be 
discovered;  suffice  it  to  say,  no  lack  in  his  con- 


WILLIAM  THE  SILENT  125 

duct  could  excuse  lack  of  virtue  in  'her.  William 
was  lonely,  and  writes  his  brother  Louis  to 
come  to  him,  if  only  for  a  fortnight.  So  far  as 
surfaces  may  indicate,  his  relations  with  Philip 
were  at  this  period  placid,  and  himself  loyal,  only 
he  is  alert  always  to  avert  any  encroachment  of 
tyranny.  Philip,  undeterred  by  all  his  fair  words 
and  promises,  supported  by  royal  honor,  spoken 
to  Count  Egmont,  who  had  been  sent  to  the  Es- 
curial  to  make  formal  protest  in  behalf  of  the 
nobles  against  religious  persecution,  not  so  much 
as  a  question  of  tolerance  as  a  question  of  wisdom, 
seeing  all  the  nobles  were  sincere  Catholics,  and 
the  further  impossibility  of  enforcing  such  an 
edict, — Philip,  in  the  face  of  these  advices  and  in 
the  face  of  his  promises,  sent,  in  1565,  peremptory 
orders  to  Margaret  of  Parma,  Regent  of  the 
Netherlands,  to  proceed  against  heretics.  So 
Philip's  duplicity  was  revealed  and  the  die  cast. 
One  thing  was  fortunate :  the  worst  was  known. 
Protests  poured  in,  a  veritable  flood — protests 
against  all  Inquisitorial  methods  in  a  land  accus 
tomed  to  liberty — the  prince,  meantime,  remaining 
moderate,  to  the  exasperation  of  the  Protestants, 
whose  blood  boiled  at  the  prospect  of  an  Inquisi 
tion  in  their  midst  and  for  their  extermination. 
From  Breda,  William  watched  evils  take  shape, 
his  very  calm  giving  him  advantage  in  forming 
accurate  judgment  of  the  magnitude  of  opposition 


126      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

on  which  he  might  rely,  concurring  in  a  remon 
strance  drawn  up  in  March  of  1566;  and  in  the 
latter  part  of  this  month  lie  went  to  a  meeting  of 
the  Council  at  Brussels,  where  he  spoke  frankly 
against  the  measures  of  the  king,  urging  modera 
tion  on  this  ground,  "To  see  a  man  burn  for  his 
opinion  does  harm  to  the  people,  and  does  noth 
ing  to  maintain  religion;"  and  in  the  ensuing 
April,  Brederode  presented  the  remonstrance, 
Margaret  the  Regent  replying  she  could  not — 
i.  e.,  dared  not — suspend  the  Inquisition.  Thus 
were  the  famous  "Beggars"  ushered  into  history. 
Prince  William,  nothing  revolutionary  in  char 
acter,  still  counseled  quiet  till  all  his  hopes  were 
frustrated  and  all  his  fears  realized,  when,  on 
August  1 8th,  in  an  annual  festival  of  Antwerp 
Catholicism,  a  tumult  arose  over  the  wooden 
Virgin,  and  rebellion  against  Philip  II  was  ac 
tually  inaugurated;  for  from  this  hour  the  Con 
federates  armed  and  strengthened  themselves 
against  the  policy  and  duplicity  of  Margaret  the 
regent  and  Philip  the  king,  having  accurate 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  each.  Orange  is 
still  on  the  side  of  submission,  and  Motley,  than 
whom  there  is  no  better  authority,  thinks  Sep 
tember  the  month  of  his  considering  seriously 
forcibly  resisting  Philip's  encroachments;  for  now, 
through  a  trusted  messenger,  he  puts  on  guard 
Count  Egmont,  whose  sanguine  temperament  leads 


THE    SlI^NT  127 

him  still  to  put  reliance  in  Philip's  fair  words. 
Evidently  we  have  come  to  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  Erelong,  William  of  Orange  will  be  a  rebel. 
The  second  period  of  William's  life,  stretching 
from  Henry  IFs  revelation  to  the  prince's  death, 
is  divisible  into  two  parts — part  first  reaching  to 
the  outbreak  at  Antwerp,  in  which,  though  on 
the  defensive,  he  was  yet  actually  loyal;  part 
second  beginning  with  the  Antwerp  outbreak, 
when  he  saw  Philip  clearly,  and  as  a  patriot,  and 
loving  the  Netherlands  more  than  he  loved  a  for 
eign  and  tyrannical  king,  he,  in  a  lesser  or  greater 
degree,  meditated  rebellion.  We  are  now  come  to 
the  last  stage  in  the  journey  of  the  prince.  Events 
had  more  doom  in  them  than  he  or  any  man  could 
guess,  and  marched  on  like  an  army  at  double 
quick.  In  March,  1567,  came  Philip's  order  com 
manding  every  Flemish  functionary  (each  of  whom 
had  taken  oath  at  the  beginning  of  his  reign)  to 
take  a  new  oath,  demanding  "every  man  in  his  serv 
ice,  without  any  exception  whatever,  should  now 
renew  his  oath  of  fealty,"  said  oath  reading,  "De 
manding  a  declaration  from  every  person  in  office 
as  to  his  intention  to  carry  out  His  Majesty's  will, 
without  limitation  or  restriction,"  which  William, 
refusing  to  take,  offered  his  resignation  to  the 
regent;  and  the  breach  was  made.  On  April  10, 
1567,  Orange  wrote  Philip  his  intention  of  with 
drawing  from  the  Royal  Council,  and  on  the  day 


128       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK; 

following,  leaving  his  office  vacant,  departed  from 
Antwerp  for  Breda;  and  the  breach  was  complete, 
and  William  the  Silent  was  calendared  as  a  traitor. 
In  May,  Alva  set  out  from  Spain  with  an  army 
to  subdue  the  rebellious  Flemings;  and  Philip, 
sinister,  pugnacious,  relentless,  was  seen  a  life- 
size  figure.  Philip  was  now  himself.  In  Septem 
ber,  Prince  Maurice  was  born  and  christened  with 
Lutheran  rites,  the  Prince  of  Orange  thus  begin 
ning  his  hegira  from  the  Church  of  Rome.  In 
the  spring  of  1568,  Orange  formally  took  up  arms 
against  these  Spanish  invaders;  and  in  October, 
1573,  he  formally  became  a  Protestant,  thus  be 
coming  a  civil  and  ecclesiastical  refugee. 

Thus  far  events  have  been  given  in  their 
chronological  order,  a  process  needful  no  longer, 
the  steps  having  been  shown  by  which  William  of 
Orange,  a  Catholic  prince,  loyal  to  and  trusted  by 
Charles  V,  has  come  to  be  a  rebel  against  the 
Church  and  Philip  II,  with  a  price  put  upon  his 
head.  His  remaining  life  is  one  long,  bloody,  tire 
less,  valorous,  magnificent,  though  often  hopeless, 
effort  to  consummate  the  freeing  of  his  native 
land  from  ecclesiastical  and  civil  tyranny. 

William  the  Silent  must  be  studied  as  soldier, 
for  such  he  unquestionably  was.  Men  are  best 
pictured  by  comparisons.  William  was  cool,  de 
liberate,  judicial,  eloquent  on  occasion,  but  not 
magnetic.  His  qualities  were  not  such  as  blaze 


THE  SILENT  129 

in  a  battle-charge,  such  as  Marshal  Murat  knew 
to  lead.  Those  methods  were  entirely  foreign  to 
him.  He  has  even  been  accused  of  cowardice, 
though,  so  far  as  I  can  judge,  without  justice. 
His  circumstances — the  lack  of  armies;  the  slug 
gard  patriotism  of  his  countrymen;  his  constant 
negotiations,  not  to  say  intrigues,  with  many 
persons;  his  perpetual  efforts  to  raise  moneys  to 
equip  forces  to  carry  on  the  patriotic  warfare — 
seem  to  have  left  him  scant  time  to  lead  armies 
in  person.  His  retirement  to  Breda  on  his  first 
break  with  his  sovereign  was  deliberate,  open,  and 
manly.  If  naturally  timid,  to  quote  Motley,  "he 
was  certainly  possessed  of  perfect  courage  at  last. 
In  siege  and  battle,  in  the  deadly  air  of  pestilential 
cities,  in  the  long  exhaustion  of  mind  and  body, 
which  comes  from  unduly  protracted  labor  and 
anxiety,  amid  the  countless  conspiracies  of  as 
sassins,  he  was  daily  exposed  to  death  in  every 
shape.  Within  two  years,  five  different  attempts 
against  his  life  had  been  discovered.  Rank  and 
fortune  were  offered  to  any  malefactor  who  would 
compass  his  murder.  He  had  already  been  shot 
through  the  head  and  almost  mortally  wounded. 
Under  such  circumstances,  even  a  brave  man 
might  have  seen  a  pitfall  at  every  step,  a  dagger 
in  every  hand,  and  poison  in  every  cup.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  ever  cheerful,  and  hardly  took 
more  precaution  than  usual."  Surely  these  are 
9 


130       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

not  marks  of  cowardice.  Compare  William  with 
Henry  IV  of  France,  and  Count  Egmont,  hero 
of  St.  Quentin's.  They  were  soldiers,  never 
statesmen.  Henry  was  goaded  by  impulse.  He, 
on  the  now  classic  field  of  Ivry,  calling  his  soldiers 
to  follow  where  his  white  plume  leads,  is  a  hero- 
soldier  figure;  and  Egmont,  generous,  impulsive, 
magnetic,  chivalrous,  devoid  of  forecast,  had,  at 
St.  Quentin's,  administered  such  defeat  as 
"France  had  not  experienced  since  the  battle  of 
Agincourt."  He  was  a  brilliant  soldier,  and  burnt 
like  lightnings  before  men's  eyes.  Both  these 
commanders  were  dramatic,  and  compelled  vic 
tory,  so  as  to  merit  the  rank  of  soldiers  forever. 
William  the  Silent  falls  not  in  such  company. 
His  campaigns  were  not  brilliant,  though  many 
generals  who  are  accounted  great  are  devoid  of 
this  quality.  He  was  not  the  soldier  his  son 
Maurice  was,  who  was  properly  ranked  as  a 
brilliant  soldier,  and  in  quality  of  action  takes  his 
place  beside  Henry  IV  and  Count  Egmont.  His 
soldiership,  however,  monopolized  his  genius, 
using  all  its  fire.  Fortunate  it  was  for  the  Nether 
lands  that  William  was  more  statesman  than  sol 
dier;  but  equally  fortunate  for  them  that  he  was 
enough  of  a  soldier  to  baffle  Requesens,  Alva, 
and  Parma.  We  measure  power  by  obstacles  mas 
tered.  Apply  this  test  to  Orange,  and  he  will 
stand  huge  of  bulk  as  mountain  ranges;  for  Alva 


WILUAM  THE  SILENT  131 

and  Parma  were  among  the  chief  generals  of  their 
century,  with  royal  authority  and  equipment 
(inadequate  enough,  truly,  but  still  an  equipment), 
with  royal  credit  and  prestige,  with  the  taxes  of 
the  provinces  to  supply  the  exchequer;  and  these 
generals  Orange  met,  hampered  with  lack  of 
arms,  men,  funds,  moral  support;  with  mercenary 
troops,  unreliable  and  mutinous,  hired  much  of 
the  time  with  moneys  raised  by  mortgaging  his 
own  estates,  and  backed  up  by  a  supine  and  a 
divided  people,  himself  clothed  with  no  authority 
compelling  subordination,  and,  with  the  excep 
tion  of  his  brother  Louis  (who  was  slain  at  the 
battle  of  Mookerheyde),  without  a  single  captain 
of  generous  military  capacity, — with  such  odds, 
seemingly  insuperable,  William  of  Orange  met 
the  chief  captains  of  his  generation,  and  made 
head  against  them,  creeping  forward,  as  the  tides 
do,  till  they  own  the  shore.  When  these  facts 
are  co-ordinated,  his  achievements  become  phe 
nomenal.  His  resiliency  was  tremendous.  In 
some  significant  regards,  his  military  career  finds 
parallel  in  General  Washington. 

In  a  remarkable  particular,  William  the  Silent 
resembles  Quintus  Sertorius;  namely,  that  each, 
while  rebel  against  his  Government,  fought  in 
the  name  of  his  Government.  Mommsen  says : 
"It  may  be  doubted  whether  any  Roman  states 
man  of  the  earlier  period  can  be  compared  in 


132       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

point  of  versatile  talent  to  Sertorius,"  who,  though 
in  rebellion  against  Rome,  did  all  he  did  in  the 
name  of  Rome,  fought  battles,  levied  tributes, 
enfranchised  cities,  remodeled  communities ;  in 
short,  did  in  Spain  what,  in  a  later  period,  Julius 
Caesar  did  in  Gaul.  William  the  Silent  for  years 
carried  on  his  warfare  in  Philip's  name,  tacitly 
assuming  that  Philip's  agents  were  at  fault,  and 
not  Philip's  self,  and  that  himself  was  the  king's 
true  representative  in  the  Low  Countries.  Will 
iam  made  war  in  the  king's  name,  Granvelle,  in 
the  earlier  stages  of  the  rebellion,  being  named 
as  the  agent  of  oppression;  while,  in  fact,  that  re 
markable  man  and  sagacious  statesman  was  hope 
lessly  subordinate  to  his  master,  though  harmonious 
with  him.  As  yet,  the  Netherlands  had  not 
conceived  the  extent  of  Philip's  tyranny,  bigotry, 
and  duplicity.  Another  similarity  between  the 
Dutch  and  Roman  outlaw  was,  that  both  were 
statesmen  rather  than  generals,  having  command 
ing  outlook  on  their  eras ;  and  although  each  was, 
perforce,  captain  of  a  host,  his  signal  service  was 
as  shaper  of  a  realm. 

Here  lies  William  the  Silent's  chosen  might. 
He  was  born  diplomat.  Philip  himself  kept 
State  secrets  behind  no  more  impenetrable  reserve 
than  William.  His  statesmanship  was  wrought 
into  his  patriotism  like  glancing  colors  in  silk; 
and  he  stands  a  patriot  whose  services  no  one  can 


WlI^IAM  THE   SlI/ENT  133 

overestimate,  and  a  champion  of  liberty  the  most 
valiant  and  sagacious  known  prior  to  the  Puritan 
Rebellion.  Seventeen  provinces  constituted  the 
Netherlands.  By  the  pacification  of  Ghent,  in 
1576,  a  union  was  formed  among  certain  of  these, 
in  which,  for  the  first  time,  religious  tolerance 
was  asserted  and  applied — Catholics  to  allow 
Protestants  to  worship  as  they  would,  and  Prot 
estants  to  do  the  like  by  Catholics.  This  pacifi 
cation,  in  its  specifications,  was  an  unheard-of 
gain  for  Protesantism  and  for  liberty,  and  consti 
tuted  William's  chief  triumph  up  to  that  date. 
The  Netherlands  were  peopled  with  varied  popu 
lations,  with  all  but  innumerable  conflicting  in 
terests  and  dispositions,  so  much  so  that  union 
seemed  impossible.  This  is  partial  explanation 
w'hy  Prince  William  suffered  more  from  the  in 
action  and  suspicion  of  his  own  countrymen  than 
from  all  Philip's  machinations.  His  patience  was 
something  godlike.  No  people  known  to  his 
tory  appear  to  less  advantage  or  show  less  love 
of  liberty,  or  even  common  self-respect,  than 
these  Belgic  provinces  through  many  years. 
They  were  so  abject,  so  schooled  to  suffer  and 
resent  nothing,  that  even  the  horrors  of  the 
Spanish  Inquisition  did  not  lift  them  into  rebellion, 
nor  yet  the  savage  cruelties  of  Alva,  nor  the  exe 
cution  of  Count  Egmont  and  Count  Horn, 
though  the  atrocities  of  Spanish  mutineers  did  at 


134       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  Fous; 

last  expedite  those  deliberations  which  ultimated 
in  the  pacification  of  Ghent.  I  have  wondered 
many,  many  times,  Orange  did  not  lose  faith  in 
•his  countrymen  and  give  them  over  to  their  servi 
tude.  His  fortitude  sustained  him,  and  his  pa 
tience  held  as  if  it  had  been  a  steel  cable,  and  his 
natural  cheerfulness  was  of  unquestionable  service 
in  keeping  him  from  losing  heart.  Almost  every 
leader  proved  false  to  him,  some  of  his  own  rela 
tions  included,  and  he  kept  on!  He  must  use 
the  men  he  had.  A  great  cause  requires  and 
equips  a  great  leader.  It  was  so  in  William. 
His  country  and  its  cause  had  him,  and  in  him 
was  rich.  He  saw  worth  in  men,  and  built  on 
that.  That  men  betrayed  him  did  not  unseat  his 
faith  in  men.  He  did  what  every  statesman  does, 
had  faith  in  men,  appealed  to  their  possibilities, 
to  their  prospective  rather  than  their  present 
selves,  and  so  helped  them  to  what  they  ought 
to  be.  He  lifted  them  up  to  his  levels,  and  they 
stood  peers  in  manhood  and  patriotism.  Many 
failed  him;  but  many  did  not.  Much  discouraged, 
but,  specially  later  in  his  career,  much  encouraged 
him.  Deeds  of  heroism  so  incredible  as  to  read 
like  a  romance,— such  deeds  were  not  rare,  rather 
common.  The  siege  of  Maestrich  takes  rank 
among  the  heroic  episodes  in  the  battles  for  hu 
man  liberty.  One's  blood  grows  fairly  frantic  in 
reading  the  thrilling  story,  and  a  man  is  glad  he 


WI^IJAM  THE  SILENT  135 

is  a  man  and  brother  to  men  who  could  do  feats 
so  superb;  and  the  flooding  of  the  lands  in  raising 
the  siege  of  Leyden  is  to  be  classed  among  the 
deathless  sacrifices  for  dear  liberty.  For  these 
and  all  such  lofty  flights  of  courage  and  success, 
William  was  the  inspiration.  He  was  never  de 
feated  by  defeat.  Liberty  must  not  fail.  The 
Provinces  trusted  him  in  their  hearts,  and  so  long 
as  he  remained  firm,  self-sacrificing,  undisturbed, 
the  people  (so  he  argued)  could  be  relied  on  to 
trust  in  him  and  to  justify  his  trust  in  them.  In 
behalf  of  freedom,  no  sacrifice  or  achievement 
was  other  than  feasible  to  him.  He  loaded  his 
estate  with  debt  for  the  common  good.  Through 
many  years  penury  was  his  portion.  Great 
events  marshaled  themselves  about  him  as  if  he 
were  their  necessary  captain.  He  knew  the  art 
of  inspiring  men,  which  is,  at  last,  the  mightiest 
resource  of  a  great  soul.  He  knew  how  to  deal 
with  men, — the  finest  of  the  arts.  In  his  roused 
moments  his  eloquence,  whether  spoken  or  writ 
ten,  swayed  men's  judgments  and  nerved  their 
hearts.  Motley  says,  "His  influence  on  his  audi 
tors  was  unexampled  in  the  annals  of  his 
country  or  age."  His  memory  lost  nothing;  his 
ability  to  read  men  ranks  him  with  Richelieu;  he 
was  cautious,  politic,  but  not  slow,  though  his  uni 
form  habit  of  caution  robbed  his  acts  of  the  fine 
flavor  of  spontaneity;  he  was  painstaking,  and  as 


136       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

laborious  as  Philip,  which  is  the  last  effort  of  com 
parison,  seeing  Philip's  industry  was  all  but 
without  precedent.  If  he  flooded  coasts  and  in 
lands  by  the  seas  he  emptied  on  them  as  if  the 
seas  were  his,  he  also  inundated  courts  of  kings 
and  assemblies  of  nobles  with  appeals,  remon 
strances,  or  letters  of  instruction  or  information. 
He  lacked  nothing  of  being  ubiquitous,  and  was 
the  moving  spirit  of  all  occasions  where  liberty 
had  followers.  Nothing  eluded  nor  bewildered 
him,  from  which  observations  Motley's  estimate 
stands  justified;  for  he  called  him  "The  first 
statesman  of  'his  age."  Compare  him  with  Don 
John  of  Austria,  hero  of  Lepanto,  who  was 
natural  son  of  Emperor  Charles  V,  vivacious, 
romantic,  brilliant,  and  conqueror  of  the  Turks  at 
Lepanto,  whence  his  name  had  risen,  like  a  star, 
to  flame  at  the  eastern  window  of  every  court  in 
Christendom.  Made  governor  of  the  Nether 
lands,  he  found  himself  beset  by  difficulties 
through  which  sword  and  troop  could  not  cut  his 
way.  Harassed  by  the  distrust,  unfaithfulness,  and 
meanness  of  Philip;  hedged  by  the  sagacious 
statecraft  of  his  adversary,  William  of  Orange, 
he  attempted  the  role  of  war ;  found  himself  de 
feated  by  an  invisible  antagonist,  whose  name 
haunted  his  days  and  nights — the  name  was 
"Father  William" — at  last,  flared  up  like  an  ex 
piring  lamp,  and  died.  Such  the  conqueror  of 


THE  SILENT  137 

LyCpanto  when  brought  to  cope  with  William  the 
Silent.  William  stood  possessed  of  vast  charac 
ter-resources,  so  that  what  was  lacking  in  sup 
plies  he  made  up  in  himself. 

William  of  Orange,  and  Philip,  King  of  Spain 
and  the  Western  Hemisphere,  challenge  com 
parison.  Philip  was  statesman  in  that  his  powers 
were  adapted  to  the  cabinet  rather  than  the  battle ; 
and  Philip  may  pass  for  a  statesman  in  some 
particulars.  Painstaking,  laborious,  with  real 
ability  in  choice  of  servants  to  execute  his  will, 
and  keeping  eyes  on  the  horizons  of  the  greatest 
empire  the  world  had  seen,  he  peopled  this  wide 
world  of  his  with  hopeless  projects,  since  his  am 
bition  was  topless  as  skies  of  night.  His  claims 
were  fantastic  or  great,  as  you  might  elect  to 
call  them;  for  he  claimed  both  England  and 
France  as  provinces  of  his  empire,  keeping  at  the 
respective  courts  secret  agents,  with  lavish  gold 
for  corrupting  those  sovereigns'  servants.  His 
reign  is  a  sort  of  free  fight  with  him  on  every 
body,  he  keeping  every  item  under  his  own  sur 
veillance,  but  displaying  no  capacity  to  do  other 
that  baldly  claim  and  attempt.  He  could  not 
compass  his  designs.  There  were  no  compensa 
tions  in  his  reign.  He  lost  and  never  gained. 
England  defeated  him  at  home  and  abroad.  The 
Dutch  defied  him,  and  won  their  liberty  after 
bitter  years  of  struggle.  His  every  effort  to  sub- 


138       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER  FOI«K 

due  them  failed.  Though  the  Inquisition  murdered 
from  fifty  to  one  hundred  thousand  of  his  most 
industrious  subjects,  this  done,  and  still  failure! 
He  trusted  no  man.  He  probably  poisoned  his 
own  son,  Don  Carlos.  His  treachery  was  black 
as  Caesar  Borgia's ;  and  to  his  chosen  counselors  he 
wrote  interminable  lies,  apparently  deeming  lying  a 
virtue.  He  offered  fabulous  sums  of  money  for 
the  assassination  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  of  King 
Henry  IV,  and  of  William,  Prince  of  Orange,  and 
finally  gave  William's  estate  to  the  relatives  of 
Gerard,  the  assassin  of  the  prince.  Philip  was 
painstaking,  not  sagacious.  While  admiring  his 
industry,  I  can  not  bring  myself  to  the  point  of 
believing  he  had  greatness.  A  superior  chief 
clerk  he  was,  and  an  inferior  king. 

William  the  Silent,  Prince  of  Orange,  money 
less,  resonrceless,  defeated  the  richest  empire  of 
the  world  without  winning  a  single  decisive  vic 
tory.  So  viewed,  he  is  a  statesman  of  magnificent 
proportions.  At  his  death,  fifteen  out  of  the  seven 
teen  provinces  were  in  rebellion ;  and  had  he  lived, 
there  can  be  no  rational  doubt  the  remaining  two 
had  rebelled  and  the  seventeen  become  free.  As 
it  was,  seven  provinces  won  their  liberty,  and  in 
1648,  at  the  Peace  of  Westphalia,  were  acknowl 
edged  as  a  sovereign  State  and  free  .from  Spain. 

William  was  importuned,  vehemently  impor 
tuned,  to  become  king.  He  refused,  as  Cromwell 


WlUJAM   THE   SILENT  139 

in  a  later  day  refused,  though,  had  Cromwell  be 
come  king,  there  is  no  reason  why  he  might  not 
have  handed  down  his  scepter  to  his  son.  What 
sealed  Richard  Cromwell's  fate  was  that  he  was 
not  a  king,  the  English  wishing  to  feel  they  had 
a  hereditary  head.  This  was  the  mistake  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange.  While  his  refusal  of  regal 
honors  reflected  credit  on  his  manhood  and  dis 
interested  patriotism,  that  refusal  was  a  weakness 
to  the  cause  of  liberty.  About  a  king  men  of 
those  days  would  have  rallied  as  about  no  Stadt- 
holder;  for  the  Flemings  were  never  essentially 
republican  in  instincts.  Freemen  they  learned  to 
be;  republicans  they  never  learned  to  be.  Had 
William  of  Orange  become  king,  then  had  his 
son,  as  sovereign,  led  his  subjects  to  battle.  As 
yet  Europe  was  not  ready  for  a  commonwealth. 
As  the  case  stood,  William  lived,  loving  his 
country  with  an  ingenuous  affection ;  was  a  patriot 
statesman,  whose  reward  for  years  of  toil,  which 
seamed  his  brow  at  the  age  of  forty  as  if  he  had 
been  seventy,  was  an  impoverished  estate,  but  an 
imperishable  fame. 

On  July  10,  1584,  Belthazer  Gerard  shot 
"Father  William"  in  his  own  home,  and  he,  fall 
ing,  cried:  "My  God,  have  pity  on  my  soul!  I 
am  sorely  wounded !  My  God,  have  pity  on  my 
soul  and  this  poor  people !"  and  this,  save  his 
whispered  "Yes"  to  his  sister's  eager  inquiry  if 


140       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

he  trusted  his  soul  to  Jesus,  were  his  last  words, 
so  that,  as  his  country  had  been  his  thought 
through  many  turbulent  years,  so  was  it  his  last 
thought  and  love — a  fitting  word  for  a  patriot 
such  as  he  to  leave  on  his  dead  lips.  Let  the  his 
torian's  verdict  stand  as  ours,  "His  life  was  a 
noble  Christian  epic." 

A  statesman  is  a  man  of  his  own  and  succeed 
ing  ages,  and  in  him,  therefore,  is  much  antici 
patory.  He  outruns  his  time.  The  vision  Will 
iam  the  Silent  had,  which  outran  the  simple 
patriot  in  him,  was  the  vision  of  religious  toler 
ance.  This  might  serve  him  for  crown  had  he 
no  other.  What  the  world  has  learned  to  do,  that 
this  Dutch  prince  taught — virtually  first  of  modern 
statesmen.  In  an  utterly  intolerant  age  and  coun 
try,  he  apostled  manly  tolerance.  In  a  later  day, 
John  of  Barneveldt  came  to  the  block  because  he 
was  an  Arminian.  Protestants,  though  never 
wholesale  persecutors,  had  yet  to  learn  this  wise 
man's  lesson.  And  this  must  rank  among  the 
underscored  virtues  of  this  old  soldier  of  liberty, 
that  he  wished  men  to  worship  God  without 
molestation.  Nor  did  this  tolerance  grow  out  of 
indifference  to  religion.  In  youth  he  was  care 
less  of  Divine  matters,  and  thought  little  of 
religion.  But  so  sagacious  and  so  burdened  a 
man  as  he  grew  to  feel  need  of  strength  beyond 
the  help  of  man.  In  his  mature  years  he  was 


WIUJAM  THE  SILENT  141 

from  conviction  a  Christian  in  the  Protestant 
Church,  and  his  life  walked  on  high  levels  to  the 
end.  God  was  to  him  as  to  innumerable  souls, 
"a  refuge  and  strength  and  a  very  present  help 
in  time  of  trouble;"  and  in  death  he  committed 
his  soul  to  God.  By  worth  and  service;  by  forti 
tude  and  patriotism;  by  long  years  of  devotion  to 
the  task  of  breaking  the  scepter  of  tyranny;  by 
genius  burning  as  the  light,  and  goodness  puri 
fying  itself  as  years  marched  past, — by  these  at 
tributes  has  William  the  Silent,  Prince  of  Orange, 
earned  a  right  to  stand  erect  among  the  world's 
immortals. 


The  Romance   of  American   Geography 

IN  traveling  over  the  undulating  prairies  of  many 
States  of  the  Union,  huge  granite  boulders  are 
seen  lying  solitary,  as  if  dropped  by  some  passing 
cloud,  having  no  kindred  in  the  rocky  formations 
environing,  but  being  absolute  foreigners  in  a 
strange  land.  There  they  lie,  prone,  chiseled  by 
some  forgotten  art,  and  so  solitary  as  to  bring 
a  tinge  of  melancholy  to  the  reflection  of  the 
thoughtful.  In  certain  regions  these  boulders  are 
so  numerous  and  so  various  in  size  as  to  be 
used  in  building  foundations,  and  sometimes 
entire  habitations.  These  rocks  were  dropped  in 
remote  centuries  by  passing  icebergs,  and  are 
solitary  memorials  of  the  ice-drift  across  our 
continent.  The  crafts  on  which  they  voyaged 
were  wrecked  long  ago.  They  were  passengers  on 

"Some  shattered  berg,  that,  pale  and  lone, 
Drifts  from  the  white  north  to  the  tropic  zone, 
And  in  the  burning  day 
Melts  peak  by  peak  away, 
Till  on  some  rosy  even 
It  dies,  with  sunlight  blessing  it." 
142 


ROMANCE;  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     143 

This  instance  may  be  taken  as  a  parable,  sug 
gesting  the  history  embodied  in  names  of  locali 
ties,  lakes,  straits,  rivers,  cities,  hamlets,  States. 
Those  names  are  the  debris  of  a  dead  era;  and 
for  one,  I  can  not  escape  the  wonder  and  the 
pathos  of  these  shattered  yesterdays,  which  have 
a  voice,  calling,  as  in  hoarse  whispers  sad  with 
tears,  "We  are  not,  but  we  were." 

Though  we  are  little  given  to  so  esteeming 
the  study,  there  is  romance  in  geography,  learned 
by  us  when  lads  and  lasses — not  because  we  would, 
but  because  we  must — and  such  study  was  difficult 
and  unsavory.  The  catalogue  of  names  we  learned, 
perforce,  was  dreary  as  the  alphabet;  and  not  a 
memory  of  pleasure  lingers  about  the  book  in 
which  we  studied,  save  that,  in  cramped,  sprawl 
ing  hand,  upon  the  margin  is  written  the  name 
of  some  little  sweetheart  beside  our  own, — and 
dead  long  since.  No,  geography  was  not  ro 
mantic.  That  was  a  possession  we  never  suspected. 
But  romance  is  ubiquitous,  like  flowers  of  spring, 
sheltering  where  we  little  anticipate. 

To  a  lover  of  history,  however,  few  studies  will 
prove  so  fascinating  as  a  study  of  names  in 
geography.  Finding  a  few  at  random,  feel  the 
thrill  of  the  history  they  embody — history  and 
reminiscence:  Providence,  Roger  Williams  named 
the  city  so  when  himself  was  a  refugee;  Fort 
Wayne,  named  for  General  "Mad  Anthony" 


i44       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Wayne,  who  destroyed  the  Indian  scourge  in  the 
Northwest  Territory  in  1792;  Raleigh,  so  yclept 
for  that  chiefest  friend  of  American  colonization 
among  Englishmen,  Sir  Walter  Raleigh;  Council 
Grove,  because,  in  the  Indian  days,  there,  in  a 
grove — rare  in  the  prairie  country  of  Kansas — 
the  Red  Men  met  for  counsel;  Astoria,  bearing 
name  of  that  famous  fortune-maker  in  the  fur 
country  of  the  West  and  North;  Buffalo  Lake, 
reminding  us  that  there  the  buffalo  tramped  in 
days  seeming  now  so  remote,  when  the  buffalo 
rode,  like  a  mad  cavalry  troop,  across  the  wide 
interior  plains  of  our  continent ;  Eagle  River,  for 
here  this  royal  bird  used  to  love  to  linger  as  if 
it  were  his  native  stream.  These  are  the  scattered, 
miscellaneous  reminiscences  of  men  and  acts,  and 
things  and  achievements.  In  Kansas  is  a  village 
called  Lane,  a  name  which,  to  the  old  settler  in 
Kansas,  is  big  with  meaning,  seeing  it  brings  to 
life  one  of  the  strange,  romantic,  contradictory, 
and  brilliant  characters  of  the  "Squatter  Sover 
eignty"  days,  when  Jim  Lane  wrought,  with  his 
weird  and  wonderful  eloquence,  his  journeys  oft, 
and  his  tireless  industry,  in  championing  the  cause 
of  State  freedom.  Him  and  his  history,  reading 
like  a  tale  told  by  a  campfire's  fitful  light,  this 
name  embodies.  What  an  archive  of  history  does 
such  a  name  become!  Portage  is  a  name  preg 
nant  with  memories  of  the  old  days  of  discovery, 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     145 

when  America  was  still  an  unknown  limit.  "Grand 
Portage"  you  shall  see  on  the  map,  neighboring 
the  Great  Lakes,  whereby  you  see,  as  through  a 
magic  glass,  the  boats,  loaded  on  the  shoulders 
when  navigation  was  no  longer  possible,  and  the 
journey  made  over  the  watershed  till  a  stream  was 
followed  far  enough  to  float  the  birch-bark  canoe 
once  more.  Prairie  is  another  word  full  of  inter 
est.  Pampas  is  a  word,  Peruvian  in  origin, 
designating  the  prairies  of  South  America ;  while 
prairie  is  a  French  word,  meaning  meadow. 
Pampas  is  the  Peruvian  word  for  field.  The 
words  are  synonyms,  but  come  from  different 
hemispheres  of  the  world.  Does  it  not  seem 
strange  that  a  word  descriptive  of  these  treeless 
wildernesses  of  North  America  should  be  a 
gift,  not  of  the  Indian  hunter  who  used  to  scurry 
across  them  swift  as  an  arrow  of  death,  but 
should  really  be  the  gift  of  those  hardy  and  valor 
ous  French  voyagers  who  had  no  purpose  of  fast 
ening  a  name  on  the  flower-sown,  green  meadows 
that  swayed  in  the  wind  like  some  emerald  sea? 
So  the  Incas  have  christened  the  plains  of  South 
America,  and  the  French  adventurer  the  plains 
of  North  America!  Though,  who  that  crosses 
our  prairies,  sweet  with  green,  and  lit  with  flow 
ers  like  lamps  of  many-colored  fires,  thinks  he  is 
speaking  the  speech  of  the  French  trapper  of 
long  ago?  Savannah  is  an  Indian  word,  meaning 


146       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

meadow,  and  gives  name  to  these  dank  meadow- 
lands  under  warmer  skies,  where  reeds  and 
swamp-grasses  grow;  and  the  name  of  Savannah 
in  Georgia  is  thus  bestowed.  How  much  we  owe! 
Who  has  not  helped  us?  Nor  does  the  traveler 
through  the  castellated  steeps  of  the  "Bad  Lands" 
know,  nor  probably  does  he  care,  that  this  cap 
tion  came  from  the  far-traveling  French  trapper, 
whose  venturesome  and  tireless  feet  have  made 
him  at  home  in  all  places  on  our  continent.  How 
valuable,  however,  must  be  these  names  to  one 
who  cares  to  familiarize  himself  with  the  knowl 
edge  and  romance  of  those  pioneers  of  geography ! 
Of  like  origin  is  "butte."  The  voyager  saw  those 
isolated  peaks,  too  high  to  be  called  hills  and 
too  low  to  be  called  mountains,  and  said  they  are 
buttes  (knolls) — names  which  cling  to  them  as 
tenaciously  as  their  shadows. 

In  a  word,  I  have  found  this  study  a  breath 
blown  from  far  mountain  ranges  of  history;  and 
this  breath  upon  the  face  has  made  an  hour  of 
life  grow  young  and  beautiful,  for  which  reason 
I  now  write  the  story  of  my  pleasure.  The  North 
American  continent  lends  itself  with  peculiar 
grace  to  such  a  study  as  is  'here  suggested,  because 
its  story  lies  under  the  eyes  of  history.  'T  was 
scarcely  an  hour  ago,  in  the  world's  day,  since 
Columbus  found  out  this  continent,  and,  with  a 
giant's  hand,  swung  its  huge  doors  inward  for  the 


ROMANCE  OP  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     147 

centuries  to  enter;  and  all  those  discoveries  are 
our  commonplace  knowledge.  What  tribes  were 
here,  Prescott  and  Parkman  have  told  us  in  thrill 
ing  narratives;  and  columns  of  eager  colonists 
we  have  seen  press  their  way  along  the  seashore, 
into  forests,  over  mountains,  across  deserts,  never 
halting,  save  to  catch  breath  as  a  climber  of  a 
mountain  does, — on,  on,  till  a  continent  is  white 
with  the  tents  of  millions.  But  the  Indian  ab 
origine,  for  whom  the  tepee  was  portable  habita 
tion,  and  the  stretch  of  plain  and  hill  and  lake 
and  river,  hunting-ground  or  battle-ground, — the 
Indian  is  mainly  the  reminiscence  of  an  old  man's 
straggling  speech ;  and  these  names  he  has  left, 
clinging  to  lake  and  river  and  hamlet,  are  his 
memorial.  In  Montezuma's  empire,  where  once 
a  barbaric  splendor  held  court  and  set  in  tragic 
splendor,  lurid  even  yet  at  these  centuries'  remove, 
what  is  left  save  a  vocabulary  or  a  broken  idol 
lying  black  and  foreboding  in  some  mountain 
stream?  Or  those  discoverers  whose  adventurous 
deeds  are  part  of  the  world's  chosen  treasure,  what 
but  their  names  are  written  on  the  streams  or 
hills?  The  import  of  these  observations  is  this, 
that  from  American  geography  we  may,  with 
reasonable  accuracy  and  detail,  decipher  this  ro 
mantic  history.  In  those  newer  parts  of  our 
continent  names  have  too  often  lost  the  flavor  of 
history;  have,  in  truth,  done  so,  save  in  isolated 


148       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K; 

instances.  The  "Smithtons"  and  "Griggsby  Sta 
tions"  are  monotonous  and  uninteresting,  and  the 
Tombstones  are  little  short  of  sacrilege.  In  the 
crush  of  movers'  wagons  there  appeared  to  be  a 
scramble  for  names  of  any  sort.  Places  multiply, 
imagination  is  asleep,  and  names  nearest  at  hand 
are  most  readily  laid  hold  of;  yet,  even  in  such 
a  dearth  of  originality  and  poetry,  scant  names 
flash  out  which  remind  you  of  the  morning  names 
in  our  continent's  history.  A  Springdale  reminds 
you  that  colonists  here  found  a  dale,  gladdened 
with  living  springs ;  or  an  Afton  suggests  how 
some  exiled  Scot  salved  his  heart  by  keeping 
near  his  exile  a  name  he  loved.  Our  day  will,  in 
the  main,  attach  names  for  simple  convenience, 
as  they  put  handles  on  shovels.  Such  names,  of 
course,  are  meaningless.  The  day  for  inventing 
names  is  past,  or  seems  so.  We  beg  or  borrow, 
as  the  surveyor  who  marched  across  the  State  of 
New  York,  with  theodolite  and  chain  and  a 
classical  atlas,  and  blazed  his  way  with  Rome,  and 
Illyria,  and  Syracuse,  and  Ithaca, — a  procedure  at 
once  meaningless  and  dense.  Greece  nor  Rome 
feels  at  home  among  us,  nor  should  they. 

History  is  a  method  of  remembrance,  and 
names  are  a  method  of  remembrance  also,  the 
two  conspiring  to  the  same  end.  When  the 
Saxon,  sailing  across  seas,  found  a  rude  home 
in  England,  he  named  his  new  home  Saxonland, 


ROMANCE  OP  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     149 

and  there  are  East  and  West  and  South  Saxons; 
and  so,  Essex  and  Wessex  and  Sussex.  In  like 
manner,  emigrants  from  various  shores  across 
the  grim  Atlantic  kept  the  memory  and  names 
of  that  dear  land  from  which  they  sailed ;  and  by 
running  your  eyes  over  those  earlier  colonies, 
you  shall  see  names — aboriginal  and  imported — 
and  so  learn,  in  an  infallible  way,  who  first 
pitched  tents  on  that  soil.  This  tracking  dead 
races  over  seas  by  the  local  designations  they  have 
left  has  always  fascinated  my  thought.  Those 
names  are  verily  planted  in  the  earth,  and  grow 
like  trees  that  refuse  to  die.  Through  centuries 
of  turbulence  and  slaughter  and  racial  trans 
planting,  see  how  some  Roman  words  stay  and 
refuse  to  go,  knowing  as  little  of  retreat  as  a 
Roman  legion!  "Chester"  and  "coin,"  as  good 
old  English  terminals,  are  tense  with  interest, 
since  they  as  plainly  record  history  as  did  min 
strels  in  old  castle  hall.  Chester  is  the  Roman 
"castra,"  camp,  and  where  the  name  occurs 
across  Britain,  indicates  with  undeviating  fidelity 
that  there,  in  remote  decades,  Roman  legions 
camped  and  the  Roman  argent  eagle  flashed 
back  morning  to  the  sun.  Coin  is  a  contraction 
for  "colonia,"  indicating  that  at  the  place  so 
designated  a  Roman  colonia  received  honors  at 
the  hands  of  the  Roman  Senate.  In  other  words, 
these  locative  terminals  are  as  certainly  be- 


150       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

queathed  England  by  the  Roman  occupancy  as 
is  London  Tower.  "Ton"  is  historical  too,  but  is 
footprint  of  another  passing  race — namely  the 
Gaul,  defeated  of  Caesar  on  many  a  bloody  field — 
and  is  a  contraction  of  "tuin,"  meaning  garden, 
appearing  in  Ireland  as  "dun/'  meaning  garrison, 
both  indicating  an  inclosure,  and  so  becoming  a 
frequent  terminal  for  names  of  cities,  as  Hunting- 
tuin  or  tun,  probably  originally  a  hunting-tower 
or  hamlet  A  second  form  of  "ton"  is  our  or 
dinary  "town,"  which,  as  often  as  we  use,  we  are 
speaking  the  tongue  of  the  Trans-Alpine  Gauls, 
taking  a  syllable  from  the  word  of  a  half-forgotten 
people.  From  yet  another  source  is  the  locative 
"ham."  Chester  is  of  Roman  origin,  tun  is  of 
Gaelic;  but  "ham"  is  Anglo-Saxon,  and  means 
village,  whence  the  sweet  word  home.  Witness 
the  use  of  this  suffix  in  Effingham  and  the  like. 
"Stoke"  and  "beck"  and  "worth"  are  also  Saxon. 
"Thorpe"  and  "by"  are  Danish,  as  in  Althorp 
and  Derby.  These  reminiscent  instances  from 
over  seas  will  serve  to  illuminate  the  thought  under 
discussion — the  historical  element  embodied  in 
the  names  of  localities.  As  in  these  three  locatives 
we  track  three  distinct  peoples  through  England, 
we  may,  by  the  same  method,  fall  on  the  foot 
prints  of  divers  civilizations  in  our  New  World. 
Thus  far  we  have  touched  at  random,  as  one 
does  on  a  holiday.  Now,  seriously,  as  on  a 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     151 

journey  of  discovery,  may  we  take  staff  in  hand 
to  trace,  if  possible,  the  elusive  march  of  popu 
lations  by  the  ashes  of  their  campfires,  as  Evan- 
geline  did  the  wanderings  of  Gabriel,  her  beloved. 
The  Dutch,  more 's  the  pity,  have  left  scant 
memorials  of  their  American  empire.  "Knicker 
bocker's  History  of  New  York"  has  effectually 
laughed  them  out  of  court;  but,  notwithstanding, 
they  were  mighty  men,  whose  idiosyncrasies  we 
readily  catch  at  as  a  jest,  but  whose  greatness 
breaks  on  us  slowly,  as  great  matters  must. 
"Kill"  was  a  Dutch  word,  meaning  creek,  a  ter 
minal  appearing  in  many  of  the  few  words  they 
have  left  us,  such  as  Fishkill,  Peekskill,  Wynants- 
kill,  Catskill.  Along  the  banks  of  streams,  with 
names  like  these,  one  could  see  ragged  Rip  Van 
Winkle,  with  his  dog  and  gun,  with  shambling 
hunter's  gait,  or  come  silently  on  solemn  Dutch 
burghers,  solemnly  playing  ninepins  in  the  shad 
ows.  Brooklyn  (Breuchelin)  is  Dutch,  as  are 
Orange,  Rensselaer,  Stuyvesant,  Rhinebeck,  Rhine- 
cliff,  Vanbrunt,  Staatsburg,  Rotterdam,  Hague, 
Nassau,  Walloonsack,  Yonkers,  and  Zurich. 
Wallabout,  a  borough  of  Brooklyn  (Waalbogt), 
means  Walloon's  Bay,  thus  having  a  religio- 
historical  significance.  Nor  dare  we  omit  that 
river,  noble  as  an  epic,  named  after  a  Dutch 
•discoverer,  who,  first  of  Europeans,  flung  the 
swaying  shadows  of  foreign  sails  on  its  beautiful 


152       A  HKRO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK; 

waters.  Hudson  is  a  prince  among  triumphant 
and  adventurous  discoverers.  And  I  never  sail 
past  the  Palisades,  by  summer  or  gorgeous 
autumn,  when  all  the  hills  are  blood  and  flame, 
without  reverting  in  thought  to  Hudson,  who 
gave  the  stream  to  our  geography  and  his  name 
to  the  stream,  nor  forget  that  he  was  set  adrift 
in  the  remote  and  spacious  sea,  which  likewise 
bears  his  name ;  though  well  it  may,  for  it  is 
doubtless  his  grave;  for,  set  adrift  by  mutineers, 
he  was  crushed  by  icefloes,  or  fell  asleep  in  death 
in  that  winter  sea.  But  Hudson  River  and  Hud 
son  Bay  will  make  him  as  immortal  as  this  con 
tinent.  All  men  shall  know  by  them  that  Hein- 
rich  Hudson  hath  sailed  this  way.  So  much, 
then,  for  following  along  dim  paths  once  trod  by 
a  Dutch  burgher's  tramp  of  empire. 

Of  the  Swedes,  who,  under  their  victorious  king, 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  the  Protestant,  settled  New 
Sweden  (now  known  as  New  Jersey),  are  left  only 
dim  footprints,  the  path  of  them  being  all  but 
lost,  though,  fortunately,  sufficiently  plain  to  trace 
the  emigration  of  a  race.  These  Swedish  emi 
grants  and  founders  of  what  they  hoped  would 
prove  a  State,  never  attained  a  supremacy,  their 
enemies,  who  were  their  immediate  neighbors  and 
fellow-emigrants  from  Protestant  States,  so  speed 
ily  overwhelming  them — first  the  Dutch,  succeeded 
by  the  inevitable  Saxon.  Bergen,  the  first  Swed- 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     153 

ish  settlement,  in  comparative  isolation,  still 
whispers  the  story  of  Gustavus  Adolphus's  state 
craft  and  vision,  and  seems  a  solitary  survivor  of 
an  old  camp  of  emigrants  voyaging  by  stream 
and  plain,  and  all  slain  by  famine  and  disease  and 
Indian  stealth  and  pioneer's  hardship,  save  him 
self.  Nordhoff  and  Stockholm  and  Pavonta  are 
scattered  reminders  of  an  attempted  sovereignty 
which  is  no  more. 

Protestantism  made  valorous  attempt  to  pre 
empt  this  New  World  of  North  America  for  civil 
and  religious  liberty  and  the  Reformed  faith. 
A  look  at  their  breadth  of  plan  must  be  a  benefit 
to  us  and  a  praise  to  those  who  planned  so  large 
things  for  the  glory  of  God.  That  they  acted 
independently  of  each  other  shows  how  wide 
spread  this  thirst  for  liberty  and  this  love  for  the 
kingdom  of  God.  I  know  few  things  that  stir 
me  more.  Swedish  Lutherans  settled  New  Sweden ; 
the  Dutch  Walloons  settled  New  Holland;  the 
Baptists,  Rhode  Island;  the  Quakers,  Pennsyl 
vania  ;  the  Huguenots,  the  Carolinas ;  the  Puritans, 
New  England.  The  Anglican  Church  only  inci 
dentally,  and  not  of  intention,  settled  Virginia. 
Catholicism  seized  and  holds  South  America, 
Central  America,  and  Mexico,  but  in  the  United 
States  was  represented  only  by  the  colony  of 
Maryland,  planted  by  Lord  Baltimore,  and  bears 
mark  of  his  religious  faith  in  naming  his  plantation 


154       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

after  Mary,  the  Catholic  queen,  his  own  name 
appearing  in  the  name  of  its  present  metropolis, 
Baltimore.  In  days  when  in  England  the  Catholic 
was  under  ban,  he  founded  this  colony  as  a  Ca 
naan  for  Roman  Catholics.  Spanish  Catholics 
worked  their  way  along  the  Pacific  Coast,  and 
French  Catholicism  sailed  up  the  St.  Lawrence  and 
down  the  Mississippi,  though  the  latter  territory 
now  belongs  to  the  Protestant  faith.  Admiral 
Coligny,  an  illustrious  son  of  France,  attempted 
planting  the  Huguenots  in  America,  though  this 
colonizing  experiment  has  left  scant  memorial  of 
Huguenot  occupancy,  because  the  destruction  of 
this  colony  by  Spanish  Catholics  was  so  sudden  and 
so  utter;  yet  the  Carolinas  are  witness  to  this 
hazard  and  hope,  bearing  the  name  of  the  infamous 
King  Charles  IX.  How  terrible  is  the  irony  when 
we  recall  how  this  same  ruler,  after  whom 
Coligny  named  his  land  of  refuge  for  persecuted 
Protestants,  was  author  of  the  most  malignant 
religious  massacre  on  record — the  Massacre  of 
St.  Bartholomew!  In  Beaufort  and  Carteret  may 
be  discovered  reminiscences  of  an  expedition 
whose  close  was  disastrous,  yet  heroic. 

Everybody  has  contributed  to  giving  names 
to  the  States ;  therefore  attention  to  them  as  a 
class  is  fitting.  England  gave  name  to  Maryland, 
as  suggested  in  another  paragraph ;  to  New  York, 
named  in  honor  of  the  Duke  of  York,  afterward 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     155 

known  as  James  II,  of  evil  memory;  Virginia, 
so  styled  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  that  pattern  of 
chivalry,  in  honor  of  his  queen,  Elizabeth;  New 
Jersey,  after  Jersey,  the  island;  Rhode  Island, 
after  the  Island  of  Rhodes ;  Delaware,  after  Lord 
de  la  Warre,  early  governor  of  Virginia;  Penn 
sylvania,  after  William  Penn,  the  good;  New 
Hampshire,  after  Hampshire,  in  England,  as  New 
England  was,  in  love,  called  after  the  mother 
land;  Georgia,  named  for  George  II,  by  philan 
thropic  General  Oglethorpe,  who  brought  hither 
his  colony  of  debtors, — such  the  contributions  of 
England  to  our  commonwealth  of  names.  America 
has  supplied  one  State  a  name,  Washington;  and 
who  more  or  so  worthy  to  write  his  name  upon 
a  State  as  George  Washington,  first  Commander- 
in-chief  and  President  ?  Spain  has  christened  these 
Commonwealths:  Florida,  the  land  of  flowers; 
California;  Colorado,  colored;  Nevada.  We 
must  thank  France  for  these :  Maine,  for  a  prov 
ince  in  France;  Vermont,  green  mountains;  the 
Carolinas;  Louisiana,  a  name  attached  by  the 
valorous  La  Salle,  in  fealty  to  his  prince,  calling 
this  province,  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  he  had 
followed  to  its  entrance  into  the  ocean,  after 
Louis  XIV,  the  then  darling  of  the  French  people. 
Mexico  is  remembered  in  two  instances :  New 
Mexico  and  Texas.  Italy  has  a  memorial,  be 
stowed  in  gratitude  by  America.  The  District  of 


156       A  HERO  AXD  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Columbia,  with  its  capital,  Washington,  reminds 
men  forever  that  Columbus  discovered  and 
Washington  saved  America.  Besides  this,  to 
Italy's  credit,  or  discredit — I  know  not  which — 
must  be  charged  the  giving  title  to  two  continents. 
Amerigo  Vespucci  has  lent  his  name  to  one 
hemisphere  of  the  world.  Other  States  bear  In 
dian  captions.  Those  wandering  hunters  have 
lost  their  hunting-grounds;  but  we  can  not  forget 
whose  hunting-grounds  they  were  so  long  as 
the  Indian  name  clings  to  the  Territory  where  he 
is  not,  but  his  name  shall  remain  as  his  monu 
ment.  Indiana  is  generic,  the  land  of  the  Indian. 
With  this  exception,  the  States  are  called  after 
tribes  or  by  .  some  Indian  name :  Alabama, 
Tennessee,  Illinois,  Iowa,  Ohio,  Michigan,  Ne 
braska,  Kansas,  the  Dakotas  (who  will  forget 
when  Hiawatha  passed  to  the  land  of  the  Da- 
kotahs  for  his  wooing?),  Wyoming,  Oregon, 
Idaho,  and  the  like.  With  such  names,  we  are 
once  more  sitting  in  the  woodland,  by  the  wig 
wam,  as  we  did  a  century  ago.  The  memory 
haunts  us.  Thus  much  for  the  racial  element  in 
cognomens  of  States. 

Now  again  to  sec  out  on  the  journey  on  the 
trail  of  vanished  peoples! 

The  Spanish  invasion  of  America,  now,  as  we 
recall  its  story,  big  with  pathos  and  remorse,  the 
pathos  predominating,  now  that  the  last  rag  of  a 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     157 

province  has  been  torn  from  their  feeble  hands, — 
the  evacuation  of  Havana,  with  its  sorry  pomp 
of  exhuming  Columbus's  dust,  is  one  of  the  sad 
dest  sights  history  has  called  men  to  look  upon. 
Columbus,  a  foreigner,  gave  Spain  a  New  World; 
and  foreigners  of  still  another  blood  have  taken 
away  what  by  right  never  belonged  to  Spanish 
sovereignty.  Just  as  this  fate  is,  we  can  but  feel 
the  immense  pathos  of  the  Spanish  evacuation  of 
the  New  World.  French  discoverers  hugged  the 
rivers,  as  by  some  deep  affinity.  Spaniards,  con 
versely,  made  march  without  thought  of  river- 
ways.  They  were  accustomed  to  deserts  in  their 
own  land,  and  feared  them  not  in  a  remote  hemi 
sphere.  They  swarmed  in  the  desert.  Nothing 
daunted  them.  Spain's  best  blood  poured  into 
the  New  World,  a  fact  which  doubtless  accounts, 
in  part,  for  the  devitalized  energies  and  genius 
of  this  mother  country  of  their  birth  and  hopes 
and  initiative.  "Florida"  is  a  Spanish  tide-mark. 
"St.  Augustine"  is  a  gravestone  of  history,  mark 
ing  the  mound  where  lies  the  dust  of  the  first 
permanent  colony  planted  in  America.  The 
Spaniard  headed  toward  the  southern  provinces 
of  America,  as  the  Englishman  to  the  east,  and 
the  Frenchman  to  the  north  and  central  prov 
inces.  Spain  held  southward.  Though  the 
colony  of  Florida  was  retained  till,  in  the  year 
1819,  the  subtle  diplomacy  of  John  Quincy 


158       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER 

Adams  added  this  peninsula  of  flowers  to  the 
Union  of  States,  it  had  no  aggressive  value  as  a 
basis  of  discovery  or  colonization.  The  base  of 
Spanish  operations  was  Mexico,  the  fair  land  of 
their  conquest.  Spain  exploited  her  energies  in 
Mexico  and  Peru.  She  was  mad  with  a  lust  for 
gold.  Her  galleons  made  these  lands  bankrupt. 
But  Spaniards  dared  to  lose  themselves  in  desert  or 
forests.  The  discovery  and  conquest  of  Peru  is  mad 
with  turbulent  courage  and  adventure.  This  we  can 
not  deny;  and  the  discovery  of  the  Amazon  by  a 
brother  of  Pizarro  is  a  story  to  thrill  a  sluggard 
into  a  sleepless  waking.  We  see  these  heroic 
days,  and  forgive  much  of  Spanish  misrule  and 
avarice.  De  Soto,  crowding  through  jungles  of 
undergrowth  and  miasms,  through  tribes  of  hos 
tile  men,  though  stimulated  by  the  wild  lust  for 
gold,  is  for  all  a  brave  chapter  in  the  world's 
biography;  and  to  see  him  buried  in  the  massive 
river  he  discovered  is  to  make  other  than  the 
tender-hearted  weep.  To  see  on  the  map  of  the 
Union  "Llano  Estacado"  is  to  give,  as  it  were, 
the  initials  of  heroic  names.  Spain,  which  staked 
these  plains,  will  walk  across  them  no  more.  They 
did  this  service  for  others.  Were  they  fine-fibered 
enough  to  feel  these  losses,  the  sorrow  we  feel 
for  their  exit  would  be  intensified;  but  their  cen 
turies  of  misrule  have  certified  to  their  all  but 
utter  lack  of  any  finer  sentiment  or  sense  of  high 


ROMANCE  OP  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     159 

responsibility.  Give  them  what  honor  we  n:ay. 
Recall  their  departed  glory,  and  let  it  light  the 
sky,  if  only  for  a  moment,  like  a  flash  of  light 
ning.  Spaniards  were  little  less  given  to  naming 
their  settlements  "Saint"  than  the  French.  From 
Mexico,  up  the  long  Pacific  Coast,  they  affixed 
names  which  will  remain  perpetually  as  the  sole 
memorial  that  once  these  banished  dons  held 
sway  in  the  United  States.  These  names  cluster 
in  the  Southern  United  States,  touching  imme 
diately  on  their  chief  dependency,  Mexico;  but 
are  still  in  evidence  farther  away,  though  growing 
scanter,  as  footprints  in  a  remote  highway.  Rio 
Grande,  Del  Norte,  Andalusia,  and  the  charming 
name  affixed  to  a  charming  mountain  range, 
Sierra  Nevada, — how  these  names  rehabilitate  a 
past !  Nevada  and  Andalusia !  One  needs  little 
imagination  to  see  the  flush  that  gathered  on  the 
dusky  cheek  of  the  old  Spanish  discoverer  when 
he  calmed,  in  part,  his  homesickness  by  giving 
his  wanderings  the  name  of  the  dear  home  from 
which  he  came,  and  kindled  his  pride  into  a  fire,, 
like  the  conflagration  of  mountain  pines,  by  tell 
ing  the  New  World  the  names  of  his  ancestral 
land.  But  his  "San"  and  "Santa"  are  frequent 
as  tents  upon  a  battle-field  when  the  battle  is  spent. 
"Corpus  Christi" — how  Spanish  and  Catholic 
that  is!  San  Antonio,  Santa  Fe,  Cape  St.  Lucas. 
In  Florida:  Rio  San  Juan,  Ponce  de  Leon,  Cape 


160      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K- 

San  Bias,  Hernando,  Punta  Rosa,  Cerro  de  Oro, 
are  indicative  of  the  growing  communities  in 
that  peninsula  after  the  invasion  located  at  St. 
Augustine.  But  of  all  the  parts  of  the  United 
States,  New  Mexico  is  most  honeycombed  with 
Spanish  locatives.  Passing  that  way,  one  seems 
not  to  be  in  America,  but  in  Spain.  Spain  is 
everywhere.  Their  names  are  here  strewn  thick 
as  battle  soldiers  sleeping  on  the  battle-field : 
Las  Colonias,  Arayo  Salado,  Don  Carlos  Hill, 
Cerillos,  Dolores,  San  Pambo,  Canon  Largo, 
Magdalene  Mountains,  San  Pedro.  Thence  these 
names  creep  up  into  Utah,  though  there  they  are 
never  numerous:  Santa  Clara,  Escalante  Desert, 
Sierra  Abaja;  and  farther  north,  reaching  to  all 
but  hand-clasp  with  the  French  Du  Ohasne  River, 
is  San  Rafael  River.  St.  Xavier,  San  Miguel, 
Santa  Monica,  Santa  Cruz,  San  Francisco,  San 
Gabriel, — can  you  not  in  these  names  hear  the 
Spanish  languishing  speech  and  see  the  Jesuit 
pioneer?  Eldorado,  Sacramento,  El  Paso,  Los 
Angeles,  are  footprints  of  the  Spanish  discoverer. 
And  Cape  Blanco,  in  far-away  Oregon,  probably 
represents  the  farthest  campfire  of  the  Spanish 
march.  In  his  area  the  don  was  indefatigable. 
De  Soto  marched  like  a  conqueror.  Coronado 
found  his  way  into  Missouri,  Kansas,  and  Colorado. 
La  Junta,  in  Kansas,  may  mark  the  subsidence  of 
the  wave  of  Spanish  invasion,  and  Kansas  was 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     161 

part  of  the  kingdom  of  "Quivera."  Eugene  Ware, 
the  Kansas  poet,  who,  under  the  nom  de  plume  of 
"Ironquill,"  has  written  graceful  and  musical  po 
ems,  has  told  of  Coronado's  excursion  into  this 
now  populous  and  fertile  region : 

QUIVERA 

"In  that  half-forgotten  era, 
With  the  avarice  of  old, 
Seeking  cities  he  was  told 
Had  been  paved  with  yellow  gold, 
In  the  kingdom  of  Quivera — 

Came  the  restless  Coronado 

To  the  open  Kansas  plain, 

With  his  knights  from  sunny  Spain; 

In  an  effort  that,  though  vain, 

Thrilled  with  boldness  and  bravado. 

League  by  league,  in  aimless  marching, 
Knowing  scarcely  where  or  why, 
Crossed  they  uplands  drear  and  dry, 
That  an  unprotected  sky 
Had  for  centuries  been  parching. 

But  their  expectations,  eager, 
Found,  instead  of  fruitful  lands, 
Shallow  streams  and  shifting  sands, 
Where  the  buffalo  in  bands 
Roamed  o'er  deserts  dry  and  meager. 

Back  to   scenes  more  trite,  yet  tragic, 

Marched  the  knights  with  armor'd  steeds; 

Not  for  them  the  quiet  deeds; 

Not  for  them  to  sow  the  seeds 

From  which  empires  grow  like  magic. 


1 62       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Never  land  so  hunger-stricken 
Could  a  Latin  race  remold; 
They  could  conquer  heat  or  cold — 
Die  for  glory  or  for  gold — 
But  not  make  a  desert  quicken. 

Thus  Quivera  was  forsaken; 
And  the  world  forgot  the  place 
Through  the  lapse  of  time  and  space. 
Then  the  blue-eyed  Saxon  race 
Came  and  bade  the  desert  waken." 

In  Colorado,  El  Moro,  Las  Animas,  and 
Buena  Vista  are  credentials  of  Spanish  occupancy, 
the  last-named  place  being,  so  far  as  I  have  been 
able  to  trace,  the  farthest  camp  marked  by  a 
name  in  the  Colorado  district.  They  all  sought 
gold,  and  having  failed  to  find  the  thing  for 
which  they  made  their  quest,  ran  back,  like  a  re 
tiring  wave.  Coronado  and  Eldorado  are  suffused 
with  Spanish  life,  like  a  woman's  cheek  with 
blushes  when  her  lover  comes.  Over  scorching 
deserts,  and  along  the  western  coasts  of  America, 
the  Spaniard  toiled,  nor  halted  till  the  soft  Span 
ish  speech  mingled  with  the  swift,  ejaculatory 
utterance  of  the  far  French  frontier.  For  this 
search  of  theirs  we  bless  them,  -and  shall  always 
be  glad  they  left  their  nomenclature  to  mind  us 
of  what  this  now  wrecked  people  had  achieved. 

And  our  geography  is  sown  thick  with  remi 
niscences  of  the  French  occupancy  of  America. 
Now  he  is  a  total  foreigner  in  this  realm  he 


ROMANCE  OP  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     163 

helped  so  largely  to  discover.  Not  Acadia  was 
more  bereft  of  the  French  after  their  sad  ban 
ishment  than  our  America  is  of  French  rule. 
New  Orleans  has  its  Creole. 

In  Quebec,  of  all  American  cities,  you  seem 
most  in  the  old  French  regime.  The  names 
above  the  business  blocks  would  make  you  be 
lieve  that  what  you  had  read  of  the  battle  of 
Quebec  was  a  myth,  and  that  Wolfe  truly  died 
and  Montcalm  lived  to  celebrate  a  victory;  but 
when  you  climb  to  the  fortress,  it  is  the  English 
man's  speech  you  hear,  and  the  English  colors  you 
see  floating  on  the  heights.  The  French  empire 
is  melted  away  like  snows  of  winter  in  the  month 
of  June.  But  those  now  remote  days,  profligate 
of  valor,  when  French  trapper  and  discoverer, 
fearless  as  Eric  the  Bold,  fought  their  way  along 
lake  and  river,  over  plain  and  mountain,  with 
fierce  Indian  and  fiercer  winter, — those  remote  days 
are  on  us  once  more,  when  we  forget  our  history 
and  read  our  geography.  There  may  be  no  new 
France  in  contemporaneous  American  history,  but 
in  contemporaneous  geography  there  is.  The 
French  discoverer  fires  the  imagination.  I  con 
fess  to  wishing  I  might  have  tramped  by  his  side 
through  the  dense  forests;  have  sailed  in  his 
canoe  on  lake  and  stream ;  have  plodded  with 
him,  by  oar  or  sail,  over  the  Great  Lakes;  have 
joined  with  him  in  portage ;  have  been  boon  com- 


164       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,E; 

panion  with  La  Salle  on  his  journey  to  the  sea 
on  the  wide  and  majestic  Mississippi;  have  con 
sorted  with  Pere  Marquette.  Few  American  his 
tories  will  do  more  to  raise  the  temperature  of  one's 
blood  than  Parkman's  story  of  the  French  occu 
pancy  of  North  America. 

And  one  reason  why  Gilbert  Parker's  "An 
Adventurer  of  the  North"  and  "Pierre  and  his 
People,"  books  vivid  with  a  boundless  freedom 
and  heroism,  hold  attention  and  gather  force  in 
one's  spirit  is,  that  they  unconsciously,  yet  truly, 
carry  us  back  to  those  bold  days  when  such 
episodes  were  not  the  exception,  but  the  rule. 
Pioneering  appeals,  in  some'  degree,  to  us  all; 
and  in  Frenchmen  were  such  resiliency  of  spirit, 
such  abandon  to  adventure,  as  that  they  stand  as 
typical  explorers.  Who  would  not  have  been 
alongside  Hennepin  when  he,  on  a  snowy  winter 
day,  first  of  all  Europeans,  saw  thunder-voiced 
Niagara?  The  English  colonies  seized,  fortified, 
and  held  domain  in  small  compass,  and  guarded 
it  against  the  world;  but  this  was  not  the  French 
idea.  They  spread  over  a  continent,  as  a  sea 
might  have  done.  The  light  step  of  Mercury 
belonged  to  the  French  colonizer.  He  loved  to 
roam  wherever  untrod  wastes  beckoned.  Eng 
lishmen  in  America  did  little  discovering;  French 
men  did  much.  They  crossed  the  continent,  and 
would  have  done  so  had  it  been  twice  the  breadth 


ROMANCE  OP  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     165 

it  was.  I  have  already  shown  how  some  of  our 
commonest  words  in  Western  speech  are  of  this 
origin.  While  England  hugged  the  Atlantic  sea 
board,  Frenchmen  had  navigated  the  Great  Lakes, 
had  sailed  the  Mississippi  to  the  Gulf,  had  set  the 
seal  of  their  names  on  the  land  they  had  traversed, 
had  gone  in  to  the  shoreless  interior  of  the  Far 
West ;  and  to  this  day  you  can  track  the  old 
hunter  to  the  Pacific  Coast  by  the  reminiscent 
names  he  has  left  behind.  The  continent  was  his 
home.  To  him  we  owe  much  more  than  we 
shall  ever  pay;  but  to  recall  the  debt  we  owe  him 
may  serve  to  make  a  wider  margin  to  our  own  life 
at  least.  The  vast  extent  of  this  pioneer  work  of 
France  may  be  seen  by  recalling  that  the  battle 
of  Quebec  gave  England  undisputed  sway  over 
what  is  now  known  as  British  America,  and  what 
in  the  history  of  the  United  States  was  known  as 
"the  Territory  of  the  Northwest."  This  came 
from  those  by  a  single  treaty.  One  defeat  cost 
them  an  empire.  Nor  was  this  all  their  territory. 
This  treaty  of  1763  gave  England  only  French 
acquisitions  east  of  the  Mississippi  and  north  of 
the  Great  Lakes,  but  left  French  America,  west  of 
that  river  and  south  of  the  lakes,  intact,  which 
shows  how  the  common  consent  of  nations  ac 
corded  to  French  valor  in  exploration  the  bulk  of 
the  North  American  continent.  Essentially  chival 
rous,  the  French  explorer  proved  the  knight- 


1 66       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

errant  among  American  discoverers.  By  the 
treaty  of  1803,  Napoleon  ceded  1,171,931  square 
miles  to  the  United  States,  a  tract  eight  times  as 
large  as  France  itself.  France,  by  rights  acquired 
by  discoveries,  owned  about  two-thirds  of  the 
continent  of  North  America,  and  to-day  owns  not 
so  much  as  would  supply  burial  room  for  a  child! 
Saxon  as  I  am,  I  confess  I  can  not  go  to  Montreal 
or  Quebec,  nor  look  upon  the  regal  St.  Lawrence, 
without  a  sort  of  Indian  Summer  regret  filling  my 
sky.  The  French  as  explorers  were  magnificent. 
And  Frenchmen  in  those  days  of  their  dis 
coveries  were  eminently  devout,  either  in  fact  or 
in  habits  of  thought — sometimes  one,  sometimes 
both — as  may  be  inferred  from  the  religiosity  of 
the  names  they  so  often  gave  the  places  of  their 
discovery.  In  some  instances,  this  fact  is  to  be 
explained  by  recalling  that  Jesuits  were  the 
explorers ;  but  matters  conspired  to  one  effect, 
namely,  starring  the  path  of  their  discoveries  by 
"saints,"  as  with  the  Spaniards,  as  has  been  men 
tioned.  From  the  St.  Lawrence,  which  is  the 
noblest  stream  on  which  my  eyes  have  ever 
rested,  to  the  old  Saint  Louis  at  the  Mississippi's 
mouth,  it  seems  a  march  of  palmers ;  for  at  every 
halt  they  planted  a  fleur  de  lis  and  a  cross.  In 
this  nomenclature,  despite  ourselves,  is  a  witchery, 
under  whose  spell  I  plead  guilty  to  falling.  On 
the  Atlantic  side  of  Newfoundland  is  Notre 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     167 

Dame  Bay,  while  beside  the  island  northward  the 
majestic  St.  Lawrence  mingles  the  lakes  with  the 
sea.  Toil  your  way  up  the  river,  as  in  the  long 
ago  the  discoverers  did,  and  see  on  either  shore 
the  sacred  names :  St.  Charles,  St.  Johns,  St. 
Paul's  Bay,  and  on  and  on,  across  or  through 
the  continent,  St.  Mary's,  St.  Joseph,  St.  Paul, 
St.  Louis.  So  the  voyager  made  journey.  Lake 
Champlain  tells  the  inroad  of  a  brave  French 
discoverer.  Au  Sable  chasm  answers  for  it  that 
here,  on  this  black  water,  the  ubiquitous  voyager 
has  floated.  Vermont  and  Montpelier  say,  "Re 
member  who  has  been  here."  Detroit  (the  strait) 
is  a  tollgate  for  the  French  highway.  Marquette, 
Joliet,  La  Salle,  wake  from  the  dead  a  trinity  of 
heroic  discoverers.  Than  La  Salle,  America 
never  had  a  more  valorous  and  indefatigable  ex 
plorer.  Hennepin  minds  us  of  the  discoverer  of 
Niagara.  Sault  Ste.  Marie,  Eau  Claire,  St.  Croix 
River,  the  Dalles,  are  old  camp-grounds  of  these 
wanderers.  In  Indiana,  Vincennes  is  one  of  the 
oldest  French  settlements ;  Terre  Haute  (high 
ground)  and  La  Porte  are  sign-manuals  of  sunny 
France.  St.  Joseph,  in  Missouri,  and  Des 
Moines  (swamp  land),  in  Iowa,  and  the  name 
of  a  beautiful  river  in  Kansas,  Marais  des  Cygnes 
(the  river  of  swans),  tell  the  trail  of  the  old 
French  trapper.  Where  has  he  not  been?  Go 
ing  farther  westward,  find  in  Wyoming  the  Belle 


1 68       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Fourche  River;  in  Idaho  are  St.  Joseph  Creek, 
and  Coeur  d'Alene  Lake,  and  Lake  Pend  d'Oreille ; 
in  Washington  are  The  Little  Dalles,  and  in 
Oregon,  The  Dalles ;  and  in  Utah,  the  Du  Chasne 
River.  Thus  we  have  tracked  the  French  across 
the  continent,  from  the  St.  Lawrence  to  the  Pa 
cific.  What  travelers  they  were!  But  southward, 
along  the  great  River,  there  we  come,  not  into 
scattering  communities,  but  into  a  veritable  New 
France.  Their  names  monopolize  geography. 
Scan  a  map  of  Louisiana,  and  see  how  populous 
it  is  with  French  patronymic  locatives.  New  Or 
leans  (pronounce  it  New  Or-le-ans,  and  hear 
French  pride  rising  in  the  word)  is  there,  and 
St.  John  Baptist;  Baton  Rouge,  and  Thibodeaux, 
and  Prudhomme,  and  Assumption,  and  Calcasieu, 
and  Saint  Landry,  and  Grand  Coteau,  and  scores 
besides,  tell  how  surely  Louisiana  was  a  land 
peopled  from  the  French  kingdom  and  for  the 
French  king,  and,  as  those  who  discovered  and 
those  who  settled  fondly  thought,  forever.  So 
evanescent  are  the  plans  of  men!  The  word 
"bayou,"  so  common  in  the  regions  neighboring 
the  Mississippi,  is  a  French  word.  Prairie,  butte, 
bayou,  three  terms  in  perpetual  geography  of  this 
Western  World,  are  bequests  of  a  departed  people. 
The  farthest  west  and  south  I  have  tracked 
the  French  discoverer  in  a  name  is  in  Nebraska, 
where  they  are  identified  in  the  name  of  the  River 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     169 

Platte.  La  Plata  is  the  Spanish  form,  as  will  be 
seen  to  the  south — say  in  Texas — and  here  in 
the  north  is  the  French  imprint  in  Platte,  that 
wide  but  shallow  stream,  flowing  over  its  beds  of 
shifting  sands.  Verily,  the  French  regime  in 
America  was  more  than  fiction.  The  names  it 
left  will  keep  an  eternal  remembrance. 

And  the  English  came,  and  seeded  down  a 
land  with  their  ideas,  language,  laws,  literature, 
political  inclinations,  and  homestead  names. 
Those  early  emigrants,  though  refugees  from  op 
pressive  misrule,  loved  England  notwithstanding. 
Of  her  they  dreamed,  to  her  they  clung,  from  her 
they  imported  sedate  and  musical  names  for  their 
new  homes  this  side  the  sea.  New  England  was 
the  special  bailiwick  for  such  sowing,  though 
Virginia  partakes  of  this  seed  and  harvest.  The 
rich  old  English  names,  having  in  them  so  much 
history  and  memory, — how  good  to  see  them  on 
our  soil!  Those  early  colonists  were  not 
original,  nor  particularly  imaginative,  but  loyal 
lovers  they  were ;  and  to  give  to  their  home  here 
the  name  attaching  to  their  home  there  was  pledge 
of  fidelity  to  dear  old  England.  In  Virginia,  one 
will  find  what  he  can  not  find  in  New  England, 
namely,  assertions  of  loyalty  to  English  princes; 
for  the  Puritans  were  never  other  than  stanch 
friends  of  liberty,  a  thing  which  grew  upon  the 
citizens  of  the  Old  Dominion  by  degrees,  and  by 


170       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

slow  degrees  besides.  They  were  loyalists  and 
royalists.  This,  New  England  was  not,  and  could 
not  be.  The  Old  Dominion's  name,  Virginia,  and 
its  first  colony,  Jamestown,  bear  attestation  to  this 
loyalty  of  which  mention  is  made,  though  the 
State's  name  was  given  by  that  lover  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  lover  of  America,  Sir  Walter  Ral 
eigh.  Berkeley  recalls  that  querulous  old  loyalistic 
governor  of  Virginia,  that  fast  believer  in  the  di 
vine  right  of  kings  and  of  himself;  Westmoreland, 
Middlesex,  New  Kent,  Sussex,  Southampton, 
Surrey,  Isle  of  Wight,  King  and  Queen,  Anne, 
Hanover,  Caroline,  King  William,  Princess, 
Prince  George,  Charles  City,  are  names  which  tell 
of  sturdy  believers  in  kings.  No  such  mark  can 
be  found  in  the  English  colonies  to  the  north. 
To  England  they  were  attached,  but  not  to 
English  kings.  Bath,  York,  Bedford,  Essex, 
Warwick,  and  time  would  fail  to  tell  this  story 
through.  In  Maryland  you  may  note  this  trans 
planted  England  too:  Somerset,  Saulsbury,  Cecil, 
Annapolis,  Calvert,  and  St.  Mary's,  betraying  the 
Roman  Catholic  origin  of  the  colony,  as  do 
Baltimore,  Saulsbury,  Northampton,  and  Marl- 
borough.  Who  can  doubt  the  maternity  of  such 
names  as  these? 

Now  turn  face  toward  New  England,  and  find 
old  England  again :  Berwick,  Shapleigh,  Boston, 
Litchfield,  Clearfield,  Norfolk,  Springfield,  New 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     171 

Britain,  Hampton,  Middlesex,  Fairfield,  Windham, 
East  Lynne,  Roxbury,  Kent,  Cornwall,  Bristol, 
Enfield,  Stafford,  Woodstock,  Buckingham,  Ston- 
ington,  Fair  Haven,  Taunton,  Barnstable,  Fal- 
mouth,  Middlebury,  Bedford,  Dartmouth,  Pom- 
fret,  Abington, — but  why  extend  the  list,  musical 
as  it  is  with  the  home  days  and  the  home  land? 
But  name  Plymouth,  because  it  shows  the  tenacity 
of  English  loyalty  to  England ;  for  though  the 
Mayflower,  with  her  Puritans,  might  not  have  an 
English  port  from  which  to  set  sail  for  a  New 
World,  they  do  yet  name  their  landing-haven 
after  the  English  harbor.  Blood  is  thicker  than 
water  when  the  instincts  are  consulted.  Seeing 
these  names,  we  can  not  mistake  where  we  are. 
This  is  as  certainly  English  as  the  Pacific-coast 
line  was  Spanish  and  the  Mississippi  Valley 
French.  These  Englishmen  imported  names  as 
well  as  populations.  And  I,  for  one,  like  them 
and  their  names ;  for  they  abound  in  suggestion. 
Who  settled  Connecticut  and  Massachusetts  we 
know  from  these  locatives  we  have  read  and  for 
the  names  they  brought;  and  for  the  liberty  and 
religion  they  sailed  with  across  the  seas,  we  re 
member  them  and  love  them. 

There  are  miscellaneous  names,  telling  their 
tale,  not  of  race  occupancy,  but  of  who  or  what 
has  passed  this  way,  of  beast,  or  bird,  or  event, 
or  man,  which  have  left  impress  on  geography, — 


172       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

things  we  do  well  to  study,  and  which  will  al 
ways  lend  a  sort  of  enchantment  and  vivacious 
interest  to  the  pages  of  travel  or  geography.  The 
villages  along  a  railroad  are  thus  often  of  capti 
vating  interest.  The  Atchison,  Topeka  &  Santa  Fe 
Railroad,  for  instance,  may  illustrate  this  point. 
Its  name  has  interest  of  no  common  sort.  Atchi 
son  is  named  after  a  famous  pro-slavery  advocate, 
who  came  to  Kansas,  with  his  due  quota  of  "bor 
der  ruffians,"  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  making 
Kansas  a  slave  State.  Topeka  is  an  Indian  name; 
Santa  Fe  is  a  Spanish  landmark,  tall  as  a  lighthouse 
builded  on  a  cliff.  At  the  Missouri  line  is  Kansas 
City,  so  named  because  this  metropolis  is  created 
by  Kansas.  The  metropolis  is  in  Missouri;  but  is 
made  rich  and  great  by  Kansas  men  and  products. 
Kansas  has  not  a  large  city  in  its  borders,  because 
this  Kansas  City  has  engrossed  the  great  business 
interests  of  a  great  Commonwealth.  The  metrop 
olis  of  Kansas,  in  other  words,  is  in  the  State  of 
Missouri,  and  the  name  is  as  strict  a  speaking  of 
truth  as  an  apostle  could  have  commanded. 

Passing  along  the  line,  find  Holliday,  so  named 
from  the  projector  of  a  part  of  this  railroad  line; 
on  is  De  Soto,  always  thrillingly  historic ;  farther  is 
Eudora  (a  word  of  Greek  genesis,  and  meaning  a 
good  gift,  though  likely  enough  he  who  christened 
this  village  may  have  known  as  little  of  Greek  as 
a  kitten)  ;  on  is  Lawrence,  named  for  a  famous  anti- 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     173 

slavery  agitator  and  philanthropist  of  Massachu 
setts — for  Lawrence  is  a  New  England  colony,  as 
is  Manhattan,  farther  up  the  Kansas  River,  famil 
iarly  known  as  the  "Kaw,"  which  is  the  leading 
river  of  Kansas;  here  is  Lecompton,  which  keeps 
alive  the  memory  of  Lecompte,  the  Indian  chief; 
then  comes  Tecumseh,  as  clearly  an  Indian  name 
as  the  former;  then  Topeka,  the  capital  of  Kansas, 
and  wearing  an  Indian  sobriquet ;  then  comes  Wa- 
karusa  (Indian,  meaning  "hip  deep,"  the  depth  of 
the  stream  in  crossing) ;  then  Carbondale,  so  called 
because  of  the  coal  deposits  which  created  the  vil 
lage  ;  then  Burlingame,  a  beautiful  hamlet,  wearing 
a  famous  name;  then  Emporia,  a  city  of  traffic,  so 
dubbed  for  reason  of  thinking  it  a  famous  trade 
center  in  the  earlier  days;  Barclay,  named  for  the 
famous  Quaker  apologist,  because  this  village  is  a 
Quaker  colony;  Nickerson,  for  one  of  the  original 
promoters  of  this  railroad;  Great  Bend,  referring 
to  a  great  bend  the  Arkansas  River  makes  at  this 
place ;  Pawnee  Rock,  from  a  local  rallying-point  of 
the  Pawnees  when  this  was  an  Indian  hunting- 
ground  ;  Garden  City,  so  named  because,  by  irriga 
tion,  this  locality  was  redeemed  from  comparative 
barrenness;  Granada,  and  Las  Animas,  and  La 
Junta,  reminiscent  words  from  the  Spanish  march 
into  Kansas;  Puebla,  clearly  designating  that 
strange  people  whose  cliff  dwellings  are  at  this 
hour  one  of  the  rarest  studies  in  American  archae- 


174       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

ology.  On  another  branch  of  this  same  road  : 
O  lathe,  an  Indian  name;  Ottawa;  Algonquin,  for 
"trader;"  Chanute,  from  an  Indian  chief,  who  was 
a  local  celebrity ;  Elk  Falls,  referring  to  those  days 
when  this  river  (the  Elk)  was  famous  for  that 
species  of  graceful  motion  called  the  elk;  farther 
are  Indian  Chief  and  White  Deer,  names  of  evi 
dent  paternity.  I  have  taken  this  time  to  run  along 
this  railroad  line  so  as  to  show  the  possibilities 
in  this  direction  anywhere.  To  learn  to  read  his 
tory  from  the  stations  as  we  pass  is  surely  an  art 
worth  learning.  In  passing  across  the  continent  I 
have  found  it  as  if  a  guide  had  prepared  that  way 
before  us.  The  natural  history  of  a  region  may  thus 
be  read  without  resorting  to  a  book.  Count  the 
fauna:  Eagle  River,  Bald  Eagle,  Buffalo  Lake, 
Great  Bear  Lake,  Salmon  Falls,  Snake  River, 
Wolf  Creek,  White  Fish  River,  Leech  Lake, 
Beaver  Bay,  Carp  River,  Pigeon  Falls,  Elk- 
horn,  Wolverine,  Crane  Hill,  Rabbit  Butte,  Owl, 
Rattlesnake,  Curlew,  Little  Crow,  Mullet  Lake, 
Clam  Lake,  Turtle  Creek,  Deerfield,  Porcupine 
Tail,  Pelican  Lake,  Kingfisher,  Ravens'  Spring, 
Deer  Ears,  Bee  Hill,  Fox  Creek,  White  Rabbit,— 
can  any  one  mistake  the  animals  haunting  these 
places  in  earlier  days?  Trapper's  Grove  tells  a 
story  we  feel,  but  need  not  rehearse.  So,  descriptive 
words  in  vegetation,  or  person,  or  characteristic, 
what  volumes  are  contained  in  them !  Crystal 


ROMANCE  OP  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     175 

River,  Little  Muddy,  Elm  Creek,  Mission  Creek 
(a  stream  on  which  was  an  Indian  mission),  Calu 
met,  Table  Rock,  Crab  Orchard,  Elm  Creek,  Lost 
River  (the  river  lost  in  the  sand),  Soldier  Creek, 
Battle  Creek,  Corn  Creek,  Spring  Lake,  Hackberry, 
Cottonwood  Falls,  Sand  Hills,  Poplar  Hill,  Cold 
Springs,  Oak  Hill,  Cavalry  Creek,  Bluff  Creek, 
Peace  Creek,  Cedar  Bluff,  Council  Bluffs,  Punished 
Woman's  Lake,  Highbank  Creek,  Big  Knife,  Black 
River,  Cypress  Creek,  Black  Raven,  Brier  Creek, 
Big  Lick,  Laurel,  Hurricane  Inlet,  Dead  Man's 
Bay,  Pine  Hill,  Magnolia,  Mountain  Meadow, 
Medicine  Woods,  Rush  Creek,  Salt  Plain,  Saline 
River,  Lava  Bed,  Wild  Horse,  Sinking  Creek, 
Nameless,  Grassy  Trail  (in  the  desert),  Azure  Cliffs, 
Miry  Bottom,  Sand  Dune  Plateau,  Grouse  Creek, — 
these  are  names  as  communicative  of  secrets  as  a 
child.  Heath,  Rock  Lake,  Wood  Lake,  Grand 
Prairie,  Lily  Creek,  Swift  Falls,  Calamus  River, 
Evergreen  Lake,  Lone  Tree  (a  prairie  locality), 
Spring  Bank,  Fort  Defiance,  Pontiac,  Smoky  Hill 
River  (these  hills  are  always  as  if  smoky), — what  a 
light  these  names  shed  on  the  region  in  which  they 
occur ! 

And  you  can  recapitulate  American  history  in. 
its  most  salient  details  from  a  reading  of  our  geog 
raphy.  Great  names  stay,  and  will  not  be  gone. 
As  moss  clings  to  the  rock,  so  do  great  memories 
cling  to  localities.  Nature  conspires  to  keep  illus- 


176       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER. 

trious  men  from  death.  Witness  such  names  as 
follows :  Lincoln  (General  Lincoln  of  Revolution 
ary  fame),  Madison,  Pulaski  (the  brave  Pole  who 
fought  for  our  freedom),  Webster,  Sumner,  Henry 
(Patrick),  Jackson  (doughty  general  and  President), 
Breckinridge,  Hancock  (signer  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence),  Lafayette,  Clay,  Pocahontas, 
Calhoun,  Randolph,  Monroe,  Franklin,  Jefferson, 
Clark  (the  explorer),  Douglas  (the  "Little  Giant"), 
Adams,  Whitman  (the  Presbyterian  missionary, 
who  saved  to  the  United  States  Washington  and 
Oregon,  by  a  heroic  episode  which  deserves  the  per 
petual  gratitude  of  those  States),  Custer  (the  gen 
eral  slain  in  Indian  warfare),  Union  (to  commemo 
rate  the  preservation  of  our  Union),  Benton 
(Thomas  H.,  of  Missouri,  whose  daughter  was  wife 
of  General  John  C.  Fremont),  Lewis  and  Clark 
(discoverers),  Garfield,  Kane  (Arctic  explorer), 
Lincoln  (the  emancipator),  Polk,  Houston,  Lee 
(General  Robert  E.),  Tyler,  Van  Buren,  Scott 
(General  Winfield,  of  the  Mexican  War),  Pike  (the 
discoverer  of  Pike's  Peak),  Marshall  (Chief-Justice), 
Berkely,  Hamilton  (Alexander,  our  first  lord  of 
the  Treasury),  Gadsden  (he  of  "the  Gadsden  Pur 
chase"),  Marion,  Sumter  (both  of  Revolutionary 
fame),  Carteret,  Columbus,  Stanton,  Colfax, 
Greeley,  Chase,  Sherman,  Seward,  Fillmore,  Har- 
lan  (Senator),  Butler  (Ben),  Johnson  (obstreperous 
"Andy"),  Grant  (our  chiefest  military  hero),  Polk 


ROMANCE  OF  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     177 

(General),  Brown  (John  Brown,  of  Ossawatomie), 
Thomas  (General),  Sheridan,  Wallace  (General), 
St.  John  (Prohibitionist,  Republican  governor  of 
Kansas),  Lane  (Jim  Lane,  of  Kansas),  McPherson 
and  Sedgewick  (both  Union  generals),  Case,  Dallas, 
Boone,  DeKalb,  McDonough,  Schuyler,  DeWitt, 
Putnam,  Kossuth,  Hancock,  Palo  Alto,  Cerro 
Gordo  (reminders  of  the  Mexican  War),  Clayton 
(of  the  Clayton-Bulwer  Treaty),  Emmet,  Fremont, 
Taylor  (President),  Warren  (General),  Clinton  (De- 
Witt),  Audubon,  Story  (Chief-Justice),  Buchanan, 
St.  Clair,  Montcalm,  Kosciusko,  Steuben,  Tippe- 
canoe, — to  be  acquainted  with  these  names  is  to 
possess  knowledge  of  the  virtual  makers  of  America 
in  the  range  of  statesmanship  and  military  achieve 
ment. 

One  other  item  completes  this  tabulation.  The 
aborigine  of  America,  the  Indian,  has  left  "his 
mark"  across  and  through  this  Nation.  He  never, 
in  any  true  sense,  owned  this  continent.  He  hunted 
and  fought  across  it.  He  swept  by,  like  gusts  of 
winter  wind.  He  staid  here,  he  did  not  live  here. 
Possession  implies  more  than  occupancy ;  it  implies 
improvement,  industry,  habitations,  cities,  destiny, 
as  worked  out  by  sweat  of  toil.  But  this  American 
Indian,  who,  in  honor,  never  possessed  the  terri 
tory,  and  has  left  no  ruins  of  cities  built  by  his  cun 
ning  and  perseverance,  nor  codes,  nor  literature, 
has  left  us  names  of  lake,  and  stream,  and  moun- 


178      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

tain,  and  city.  This  stolid  Indian,  though  you 
would  scarcely  think  it  of  him,  had,  in  common  with 
other  nomad  and  untutored  peoples,  poetic  instincts. 
Their  names,  like  those  of  the  Hebrews,  had  mean 
ings,  and  were  picturesque  and  beautiful,  some 
times,  oftentimes,  bewitchingly  so.  Some  words 
have  a  music,  liquid  as  the  whip-poor-will's  notes 
heard  in  woodlands  climbing  a  mountain  side. 
Minnehaha,  "laughing  water" — does  not  the  word 
seem  laughing,  like  a  falling  stream  ?  I  once  heard 
a  distinguished  philologist  say  that,  of  all  the 
rhythmic  words  he  had  hit  upon  in  any  tongue, 
Winona  was  most  exquisite.  Surely  it  is  not 
musical,  but  music.  See  the  pomp  of  names,  like 
an  Indian  war  march  begun :  Athabasca,  Wyo 
ming,  Tahoe,  Niobrara,  Mohawk,  Sioux  City,  Ne- 
maha,  Hiawatha,  Seneca,  Chippewa,  Chicago, 
Saskatchewan,  Pepacton  ("meeting  of  waters"), 
Winnepeg,  Cheyenne,  Manitoba,  Penobscot,  Nar- 
ragansett,  Chicopee,  Manhattan,  and  a  host  be 
sides,  a  numberless  procession.  Indian  names  cling 
with  peculiar  tenacity  to  lakes  and  rivers ;  for  those 
hunters  knew  all  waters,  and  hunted  beside  all 
streams  and  lakes.  They  were  not  seamen,  and 
have  left  scant  memorials  of  themselves  in  names 
that  fringe  the  sea;  but  to  lakes  they  cling  with 
tireless  tenacity. 

Let  these  words  suffice.    As  one  who  journeys 
in  circles  finds  no  end  of  journeying,  so  I.     This 


ROMANCE  OP  AMERICAN  GEOGRAPHY     179 

theme  runs  on,  nor  stops  to  catch  breath.  I  make 
an  end,  therefore,  not  because  the  subject  is  ex 
hausted,  but  because  it  is  dismissed.  But  this  study 
in  geography  is  journeying  among  dead  peoples  as 
certainly  as  if  the  land  were  crowded  with  obelisk 
and  tomb.  To  those  who  were  and  are  not,  say, 
Vale!  Vale! 

"Ye  who  love  the  haunts  of  Nature, 
Love  the  sunshine  of  the  meadow, 
Love  the  shadow  of  the  forest, 
Love  the  wind  among  the  branches, 
And  the  rain-shower  and  the  snowstorm, 
And  the  rushing  of  great  rivers 
Through  their  palisades  of  pine-trees, 
And  the  thunder  in  the  mountains, 
Whose  innumerable  echoes 
Flap  like  eagles  in  their  eyries, — 
Listen  to  these  wild  traditions. 
Ye  who  love  a  nation's  legends, 
Love  the  ballads  of  a  people, 
That  like  voices  from  afar  off 
Call  to  us  to  pause  and  listen, 
Speak  in  tones  so  plain  and  childlike, 
Scarcely  can  the  ear  distinguish 
Whether  they  are  sung  or  spoken, — 
Listen  to  this  Indian  Legend. 
Ye  whose  hearts  are  fresh  and  simple, 
Who  have  faith  in  God  and  nature, 
Who  believe  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings, 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not, 


i8o       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless, 

Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 

Touch  God's  right  hand  in  that  darkness, 

And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened, — 

Listen  to  this  simple  story. 

Ye,  who  sometimes,  in  your  rambles 

Through  the  green  lanes  of  the  country, 

Where  the  tangled  barberry-bushes 

Hang  their  tufts  of  crimson  berries 

Over  stone  walls  gray  with  mosses, 

Pause  by  some  neglected  graveyard, 

For  awhile  to  muse,  and  ponder 

On  a  half-effaced  inscription, 

Written  with  little  skill  of  song-craft, 

Homely  phrases,  but  each  letter 

Full  of  hope  and  yet  of  heart-break, 

Full  of  all  the  tender  pathos 

Of  the  Here  and  the  Hereafter, — 

Stay,  and  read  this  rude  inscription." 

Only  saying,  Read  not  the  "Song  of  Hiawatha," 
but  the  story  of  dead  peoples  by  the  ashes  of  their 
campfires, — these  names  they  have  left,  clinging 
to  places  like  blue  to  distant  hills. 


VI 

Iconoclasm    in    Nineteenth    Century 
Literature. 

THAT  history  repeats  itself  is  an  apothegm 
which  has  descended  to  us  from  a  dateless 
antiquity.  It  has  been  made  to  serve  so  often  as  to 
become  trite;  and  yet  its  use  is  a  necessity,  inas 
much  as  it  embodies  a  verity,  which  to  ignore  were 
ignorance  and  folly  linked  together;  and  as  we 
stand  on  our  eminence  and  scan  the  way  humanity 
his  worn  with  its  multitudinous  feet,  as  the  events 
of  the  world  pass  in  review  before  us,  some  so 
closely  resemble  others  as  that  the  one  seems  the 
echo  of  the  other ;  and  there  appears  reason  for  that 
fascinating  generalization  of  the  ancient  philos 
opher,  that  the  epochs  and  events  of  the  physical 
realm  and  history  were  a  fixed  and  limited  quantity, 
which,  revolving  in  a  vast  cycle,  would  bring  from 
time  to  time  the  reiteration  of  the  facts  or  doings 
of  an  ancient  era.  There  was  no  new  thing  think 
able,  only  a  reintroduction  of  the  old.  To  illustrate 
this  fact  in  brief,  we  have  but  to  note  the  history 
of  philosophy.  You  read  the  names  of  those  who 
figure  as  founders  of  philosophical  systems,  and 

181 


1 8a      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

those  systems  seem  many.  Read  the  systems  as 
founded,  and  you  find  an  old-time  philosophy,  re 
juvenated  with  some  little  addition  of  cap  or  bell 
better  to  adapt  it  to  the  modern  time.  The  much- 
lauded  Hegelian  philosophy  is  the  system  of  Democ- 
ritus,  with  the  addition  of  a  little  more  absurdity  in 
the  assertion  of  the  identity  of  contradictories.  The 
multitudinous  philosophies  may  thus  be  reduced 
to  a  single  quaternion,  and  the  reputed  inaugurator 
of  a  new  philosophy  is  like  to  be  a  charlatan.  So 
history  seems  but  a  plagiarist. 

There  is  an  epoch  in  ecclesiastical  history  known 
as  the  War  of  the  Iconoclast ;  but  that  was  only  an 
embodiment  of  what  had  transpired  before,  and 
what  has  occurred  often  since.  Iconoclasm  is  a  bias 
of  humanity.  It  grows  out  of  the  constitution  of 
man.  He  is  by  heredity  a  breaker  of  images.  If 
this  view  be  not  fictitious,  we  must  not  be  surprised 
if  there  are  developments  of  this  spirit  in  our  era  or 
any  era.  It  is  a  perennial  reappearance.  Whether 
it  come  in  religion,  statecraft,  economic  science,  or 
literature,  can  be  of  little  moment.  The  fact  is  the 
matter  of  paramount  importance.  Christianity  was 
the  iconoclast  which  broke  in  pieces  the  images  of 
decrepit  polytheism,  and  hewed  out  a  way  where 
progress  might  march  to  fulfill  her  splendid  destiny. 
Luther  was  the  inconoclast  whose  giant  strokes 
demolished  the  castle  doors  of  Romish  superstition, 
and  broke  to  fragments  the  images  of  Mariolatry. 


ICONOCLASM  IN  LITERATURE  183 

The  practical  induction  of  Bacon,  Earl  of  Verulam, 
was  the  death-warrant  of  the  fruitless  deductive 
philosophy  which  had  culminated  in  the  vagaries  of 
Scholasticism.  The  Declaration  of  Independence 
and  the  Federation  of  the  States  were  the  iconoclast 
which  slew  the  phantom  of  the  divine  necessity  of 
kings.  It  is  thus  evident  that  iconoclasm  abounds, 
and  there  will  be  no  marvel  if  it  have  a  place  in 
literature. 

Innovation  is  a  practical  synonym  of  icono 
clasm;  for  an  innovation  is  putting  the  new  in  the 
place  of  the  old.  In  ancient  literature  and  liter 
atures,  prose  was  an  innovation  as  regards  poetry; 
and  later,  rhyme  was  an  innovation  in  the  domain 
of  poesy,  and  an  innovation  of  such  a  sort  that 
against  it  the  master-poet,  Milton,  lifted  up  his 
voice  'in  solemn  protest,  and  the  solitary  epic  in 
English  literature  is  a  perpetual  protestation 
against  the  custom.  '  Shakespeare  was  an  innovator 
of  the  laws  of  the  drama  when  he  violated  unities 
of  time  and  place ;  and  in  a  sense  the  drama  was  an 
innovation  on  narrative  poetry,  and  the  novel  an 
iconoclast  in  its  attitude  to  the  drama. 

The  iconoclasm  in  literature  in  our  time  is  ob 
jective  rather  than  subjective ;  and  attention  to  the 
spirit  of  the  age  will  give  a  practical  comprehension 
of  this  iconoclastic  spirit. 

It  must  be  observed  that  the  literature  of  an  age 
is  largely  the  product  of  that  age.  Times  create 


184       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER  FOLK 

literatures.  The  literature  of  any  period,  in  an  em 
phatic  sense,  will  be  directly  and  easily  traceable  to 
something  in  that  age  for  its  peculiarity. 

The  Iliad  and  Odyssey  were  necessities  of  the 
age  which  gave  them  birth.  In  so  far  as  a  liter 
ature  is  purely  human,  in  so  far  will  it  be  stamped 
with  the  seal  of  the  times,  customs,  and  thoughts 
in  the  midst  of  which  it  bloomed  into  beauty.  In 
early  Greek  times  an  epic  without  its  gods  and 
demigods,  without  resounding  battle-shout  and  din 
of  mighty  conflict,  had  been  an  anachronism  for 
which  there  could  have  been  offered  no  apology. 
The  splendid  era  of  Pericles  demanded  the  tragedy, 
and  such  a  tragedy  as  only  ^schylus  and  Sophocles 
could  originate ;  while  the  foibles  of  an  earlier  era 
made  the  comedy  imperative.  On  like  principles, 
the  writings  of  Lucretius  are  not  enigmatical,  but 
easy  of  explanation. 

The  age  which  made  possible  the  revels  of 
Kenilworth,  made  possible  also  the  splendor,  like 
that  of  setting  suns,  which  characterizes  the  "Faerie 
Queen."  And  the  prowess,  the  achievement,  the 
discovery,  the  colonization,  the  high  tide  of  life, 
which  ran  like  lightning  through  the  Nation's  arter 
ies,  made  the  drama,  not  only  a  possibility,  but  a 
fact.  It  was  the  embodiment  of  the  mighty  activ 
ities  of  a  mighty  age.  The  tragedy,  to  use  the 
splendid  figure  of  Milton,  "rose  like  an  exhalation." 
A  solitary  lifetime  brought  it  from  sunrise  to  high 


ICONOCLASM  IN  LITERATURE  185 

noon ;  and  from  that  hour  what  could  the  sun  do 
but  sink? 

Our  century  is  one  of  general  iconoclasm.  It 
is  the  Ishmael  among  the  ages.  Its  hand  is  against 
every  man.  It  has  reversed  the  old-time  order, 
that  what  was  believed  by  our  fathers  and  received 
by  them  should  be  received  by  us.  It  takes  no 
truth  second-hand.  It  goes  to  sources.  Its  motto 
is,  "I  came,  I  saw,  I  investigated."  It  found  many 
things  believed  of  old,  which  were  founded  on  the 
sand.  Physical  science  discovered  the  vast  domain 
of  physical  law,  and  that  science  began  to  legislate 
for  the  universe,  forgetting  sometimes  that  it  was 
not  a  law  enactor,  but  a  law  discoverer.  Investi 
gation  found  that  many  ideas  and  systems  of  ideas, 
supposed  philosophies  and  sciences,  were  false  and 
unsubstantial  as  the  "baseless  fabric  of  a  vision." 
Things  received  as  truths  from  time  immemorial 
were  shown  to  be  untrue.  The  tendency  of  the 
human  intellect  is  to  generalize;  and  finding  many 
previously  received  systems  and  facts  to  be  without 
evidence  sufficient  to  substantiate  them,  there  arose 
the  unwilled  generalization  that  all  these  systems 
are  likewise  false.  I  do  not  say  that  man  has  for 
mulated  this  thought  into  speech,  but  that  the  trend 
of  the  intellect  in  our  century  has  been  such  as  is 
explicable  only  on  this  theory.  In  many  instances 
the  motto  of  investigation  in  the  domain  of  history, 
criticism,  and  science  has  been,  "Believe  all  things 


1 86       A  HURO  AND  SOMK  OTHER 

false  until  you  prove  them  true."  If  such  is  the 
spirit  of  the  age,  and  if  literature  be  colored  with 
the  light  of  the  century  which  produces  it,  shall  we 
wonder  if  the  nineteenth-century  literature  is  dis 
tinctively  an  iconoclastic  one? 

All  about  us  is  the  battle  of  the  books.  War 
rages  along  the  entire  line.  No  work  of  antiquity 
is  free  from  this  belligerency.  Mars  has  the  field. 
The  investigation  has  been  crucial.  In  so  far  as  it 
has  been  learning  coupled  with  wisdom,  this  is  well. 
Truth  never  flinches  before  the  charge  of  a  wise 
investigation.  But  no  truth  can  stand  as  such  be 
fore  a  system  of  inquiry  the  canons  of  which  are 
empirical,  fallacious,  and  false.  The  task  of  demo 
lition  is  a  fascinating  one.  It  possesses  a  charm 
impossible  to  explain,  and  impossible  to  fail  to  per 
ceive.  When  one  has  a  taste,  it  is  much  as  with 
the  tiger  which  has  tasted  blood.  Such  procedure 
seems  to  open  vistas  before  men.  Here  are  open 
doors,  from  behind  which  seems  to  come  a  voice 
crying,  "Enter." 

It  will  be  chronologically  accurate  if  we  shall 
first  notice  the  iconoclastic  spirit  as  exemplified  in 
the  attack  on  the  unity  of  the  Iliad ;  and  I  class  this 
with  the  nineteenth-century  doings  because  it  be 
longs  to  the  spirit  of  that  century,  and  was  almost 
within  its  borders.  The  Iliad  had  been  the  glory 
of  international  literature  for  centuries.  Greece 
held  it  in  veneration  from  the  beginning  of  its  au- 


IN  LITERATURE  187 

thentic  history;  and  that  work  had  blazed  with  a 
solar  luster  out  of  the  Stygian  darkness  of  prehis 
toric  times.  The  book  had  made  an  epoch  in  liter 
ature.  The  cyclic  poets,  who,  for  centuries  after  the 
appearance  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey,  were  the  only 
Greek  bards,  were  confessedly  disciples  of  one 
Homer,  the  reputed  author  of  the  poems  which 
embody  the  fact  of  the  war  of  the  races.  The  judg 
ment  of  antiquity  was:  (a)  These  two  works  were 
ascribed  to  a  single  author,  (b)  This  author  was 
the  master  at  whose  wave  of  wand  these  revels  had 
begun.  In  other  words,  Homer  wrote  the  books 
which  bear  his  name.  However  much  they  might 
discuss  the  location  of  the  half-fabled  Ilium,  or 
marvel  over  the  battles  fought  "far  on  the  ringing 
plains  of  windy  Troy/'  it  was  not  doubted  that  a 
sublime  and  solitary  bard  conceived  and  wrought 
the  wondrous  work  ascribed  to  him.  It  is  not 
shown  that  this  question  was  even  mooted  in  the 
former  times.  Cities  contended  for  the  honor  of 
having  given  this  man  birth.  He  was  as  much  a 
verity  as  Pericles.  Such  was  the  status  of  the  case 
when  our  century  beheld  it  first.  Bentley  had 
hinted  at  the  probability  or  possibility  of  separate 
authorship;  but  it  remained  for  German  criticism, 
in  the  person  of  Wolf,  to  make  the  onslaught  on  the 
time-honored  belief.  The  attack  was  as  impetuous 
as  the  charge  of  the  Greeks  across  the  plain  of  the 
Scamander.  It  astonished  the  world.  It  abashed 


1 88       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

scholarship.  Grave  philosophers  and  gifted  poets 
were  carried  away  in  the  rush  of  the  attack.  Goethe 
gave  and  Schiller  withheld  allegiance.  The  Atom- 
ist  and  Separatist  for  a  time  held  the  field.  Wolf 
showed,  by  reasoning  which  he  deemed  irrefutable, 
that  the  Iliad  coufd  not  have  been  composed  by  a 
single  man.  Writing  did  not  exist.  The  story  had 
many  repetitions,  contradictions,  and  inferiorities. 
Later,  the  philological  argument  was  used  against 
it.  These  statements  summarize  the  Wolfian  the 
ory.  The  contrariety  in  dialect  form  w?  s  thought  to 
be  an  invulnerable  argument  against  the  unity  of 
authorship;  and  for  a  time  the  epic  of  the  ancient 
world  was  declared  to  be  the  work  of  many  hands, 
the  ballads  sung  by  rhapsodists  of  many  names ; 
and  the  Iliad,  with  its  astonishing  display  of  genius, 
was  declared  to  be  authorless.  Less  than  a  century 
has  elapsed  since  the  theory  was  propounded.  The 
subject  has  received  a  wealth  of  attention  and  study 
unknown  before.  Discoveries  have  been  made  in 
philology  which  have  practically  raised  it  to  the 
rank  of  a  science ;  and  to-day  the  atomistic  theory 
of  Wolf  is  not  received.  Grote  and  Mahaffy  have 
theories  which  vary  markedly  from  the  great  orig 
inal  ;  and  the  result  of  a  century  of  investigation  is, 
that  scholars  do  now  generally  believe  that  some 
one  author,  or  two  at  most,  did  give  shape  to  the 
great  epic  of  the  Greek  people.  Wolf,  Lachmann, 
and  Bert  have  shown  the  follies  of  men  of  genius 


ICONOCLASM  IN  LITERATURE  189 

when  pursuing  a  line  of  evidence  to  prove  a  favorite 
theory.  Their  assumptions  are  often  absurd,  and 
their  conclusions,  once  admitting  their  premises, 
are  a  logical  necessity.  The  spirit  of  iconoclasm 
rested,  not  with  the  authority  of  the  book,  but 
assailed  the  geographic  and  topographical  features. 
Troy  was  declared  a  dream.  The  Trojan  War  had 
never  been.  But  Schliemann  has  proven  to  virtual 
demonstration  the  existence  of,  not  only  a  Troy, 
but  the  Troy  about  which  Hector  and  Achilles 
fought. 

This  iconoclasm  has  nowhere  more  fully  dis 
played  itself  than  in  its  attitude  toward  the  Bible. 
That  book  comes  properly  under  the  head  of  liter 
ature,  for  the  reason  that  the  general  line  of  attack 
during  this  century  has  been  made  from  a  literary 
standpoint.  Of  course,  there  has  always  been, 
whether  easily  discoverable  or  not,  an  undertone  of 
skepticism  of  the  rank  sort.  Oftentimes  the  battle 
has  been  avowedly  against  the  book  as  a  professed 
inspiration.  Strauss  and  Renan  made  no  cloak  for 
their  deed.  But  in  many  instances  the  method  of 
procedure  has  been  to  study,  as  under  a  calcium 
light,  the  literary  style,  the  linguistic  peculiarities, 
the  whole  work  as  a  literary  composition.  In  this 
regard  the  method  of  criticism  was  such  as  was 
used  in  dissecting  Homer's  works.  Each  author 
laid  down  canons  of  criticism  by  which  to  measure 
the  book  in  question.  He  cut  the  work  into  frag- 


190      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

ments.  He  stated  such  and  such  parts  were  the 
work  of  an  early  writer,  while  certain  others  were 
the  additions  of  men  unknown,  far  removed  in 
time  and  place.  For  the  most  part  these  assump 
tions  were  wholly  arbitrary,  as  may  be  seen  by 
reading  the  authors  on  the  various  books.  The 
thing  which  is  the  most  observable  is  their  lack  of 
agreement,  while  the  method  used  is  the  dogmatic. 
They  all  agree  that  the  book  is  not  of  the  date  nor 
authorship  usually  assigned  to  it ;  but  what  the  date 
and  who  the  author,  is  very  seldom  agreed  between 
any  two.  The  criticism  is  largely  of  the  ipse  dixit 
sort,  and  the  grounds  of  attack  are,  though  ration 
alistic,  seldom  rationally  taken.  In  the  vaunted 
name  of  reason,  the  most  monstrous  absurdities  are 
perpetrated.  The  line  of  argument  professed  to  be 
used  is  inductive;  but  in  reality  the  inductive  ele 
ment  in  this  criticism  stands  second,  and  the  de 
ductive  element  has  the  chief  seat  in  the  synagogue. 
The  assumption  in  the  case,  the  a  priori,  sine  qua 
non  ("without  which  nothing") — these  are  the  all- 
important  elements  in  the  discussion.  It  is  the 
Homeric  argument  restated.  Each  man  professes 
to  find  his  hypothesis  in  the  structure  and  language 
of  the  book.  In  fact,  the  author  usually  began 
with  his  hypothesis,  and  seeks  to  find  proofs  for  the 
staying  his  assumptions  up.  The  Scriptures  are 
open  to  investigation.  They  challenge  it.  No  one 
need  offer  an  objection  to  the  most  scrutinizing 


ICONOCLASM  IN  LITERATURE     191 

inquiry.  The  book  is  here,  and  must  stand  upon 
its  merits.  Its  high  claims  need  not  deter  scholar 
ship  from  its  investigation.  Only,  to  use  the  lan 
guage  of  Bishop  Butler  in  regard  to  another  matter, 
"Let  reason  be  kept  to."  If  we  are  to  be  regaled 
with  flights  of  imagination,  let  them  be  thus  de 
nominated  ;  but  let  men  not  profess  to  be  follow 
ing  the  leadership  of  scholarship  and  scientific  can 
dor,  when  they  are  in  reality  dealing  in  imagination 
and  scientific  dogmatism,  and  appealing  to  philol 
ogy  to  give  them  much  needed  support.  After 
these  years  of  attack  from  a  literary  standpoint,  the 
books  of  the  Bible  are  less  affected  than  the  Iliad. 
The  Atomist  has  signally  failed  to  make  a  single 
case.  Iconoclasm  has  performed  its  task  as  best 
it  could,  and  finds  its  labor  lost.  The  criticism 
of  to-day  is,  even  in  Germany,  professedly  in  favor 
of  the  integrity  of  the  Scripture. 

But  I  pass  to  another  part  of  the  literary  field. 
From  the  Bible  to  Shakespeare.  This,  at  first 
thought,  may  seem  a  long  journey.  There  appears 
but  little  congruity  between  the  two.  The  only 
needed  connection  is  the  similarity  of  attack.  The 
same  spirit  has  whetted  its  sword  against  each ;  but 
the  lack  of  similarity  is  more  apparent  than  real. 
The  Bible  is  God's  exhibit  of  human  nature  and 
its  relation  to  the  Divine  personality  and  plans. 
Shakespeare  is  man's  profoundest  exhibit  of  man 
in  his  relation  to  present  and  future.  The  fields 


192       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER 

are  the  same.  They  differ  in  extent.  The  pro 
foundness  of  Shakespeare  seems  a  shoreward  shal 
low  when  viewed  alongside  the  Bible.  The  Bible 
and  Shakespeare  have  a  further  similarity,  not  one 
of  character,  but  of  results. 

Each  has  been  a  potential  factor  in  the  stability 
of  the  English  language.  They  each  present  the 
noble  possibilities  of  the  speech  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon.  Each  has  left  its  indelible  impress  on 
speech  and  literature.  Kossuth's  mastery  of  Eng 
lish  is  by  him  attributed  to  the  Bible,  Shakespeare, 
and  Webster's  Dictionary.  These  were  his  sole 
masters,  and  sufficed  to  give  him  a  command  of  lan 
guage  which  ranks  him  among  the  princes  of  our 
English  speech.  That  the  authorship  of  the  Iliad 
and  the  books  of  the  Bible  should  be  attacked  is 
cause  for  little  surprise.  They  were  works  of  an 
tiquity.  It  is  an  observable  tendency  of  the  mind 
to  doubt  a  thing  far  removed  in  time.  We  lose 
sight  of  evidence.  We  dispense  with  the  leadership 
of  reason,  and  let  inclination  and  imagination  guide. 
This  is  a  bias  which  antiquity  must  meet  and,  if  it 
may,  master.  If  the  Iliad  and  the  Bible  were  vul 
nerable  in  this  regard,  Shakespeare  was  not.  He 
was  a  modern.  His  thought  is  neither  ancient  nor 
mediaeval.  He  has  the  characteristics  of  modern 
life,  begotten  of  the  hot-blooded  era  in  which  he 
lived.  The  modern  Shakespeare  is  a  target  for  the 
iconoclast.  It  seems  but  a  stone's-cast  from  our 


ICONOCLASM  IN  LITERATURE        193 

time  to  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  and  the  day  of  the 
English  drama.  The  time  was  one  of  action  in 
every  department  of  society.  Conquest,  coloniza 
tion,  literature,  were  beginning  to  render  the  Saxon 
name  illustrious.  It  was  the  epoch  of  chivalry  and 
chivalrous  procedure,  such  as  to  create  a  species  of 
literature  and  bring  it  to  a  perfection  which  half- 
wrested  the  scepter  of  supremacy  from  the  hand  of 
the  Attic  tragedy.  In  this  literature  there  is  a  name 
which  dwarfs  all  others.  Otway,  Ford,  Massinger, 
Webster,  Ben  Jonson,  Green,  and  Marlowe  (some 
of  these  men  of  surprising  genius)  must  take  a 
lower  place,  for  the  master  of  revels  is  come. 
William  Shakespeare  is  here.  His  life  is  not 
lengthily  but  plainly  writ.  He  might  have  said, 
as  did  Tennyson's  Ulysses,  "I  am  become  a  name." 
It  would  seem  that  a  man  at  such  a  time,  with  such 
a  reputation,  would  have  naught  to  fear  from  icono- 
clasm,  however  fierce.  He,  in  a  sense,  was  known 
as  Raleigh  or  Essex  were  not.  He  has  put  himself 
into  human  history,  and  made  the  world  his  debtor. 
The  existence  of  a  man  whose  personality  was  ad 
mitted  by  his  contemporaries  must  be  believed  in. 
Stories  concerning  him  haunted  the  byways  of  Lon 
don  and  literature.  Ben  Jonson  paid  him  a  tardy 
tribute.  Men  received  him  as  they  received  Chau 
cer.  But  the  spirit  of  the  age  finds  him  vulnerable. 
Delia  Bacon,  Smith,  O'Connor,  Holmes,  and  Don 
nelly  are  leaders  who  deny  Shakespeare's  identity. 
13 


194      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

I  may  note  Donnelly,  an  American  gentleman  of 
research  and  painstaking  which  would  be  credit 
able  to  a  German  scholar.  He  must  be  allowed  to 
be  a  man  of  ingenuity.  His  method  of  discovering 
that  Shakespeare  was  not  himself  has  all  the  flavor 
of  an  invention.  It  glitters,  not  with  generalities, 
but  ingenuities.  A  sample  page  of  his  folio,  cov 
ered  with  hieroglyphics  which  mark  the  progress 
of  finding  the  cipher  which  he  thinks  the  plays  con 
tain — such  sample  page  is  certainly  a  marvel,  even 
to  the  generation  which  has  read  with  avidity 
"Robert  Elsmere"  and  "Looking  Backward."  A 
peculiarity  in  it  all  is,  that  his  explanation  makes 
marvelous  doubly  so.  To  believe  that  a  man  should 
have  hidden  his  authorship  of  such  works  as  the 
plays  of  Shakespeare  makes  a  draft  on  the  cre 
dulity  of  men  too  great  to  be  borne.  Why  Junius 
should  not  have  revealed  himself  is  not  difficult  to 
discover.  His  life  was  at  stake.  But  why  the 
author  of  "The  Tempest,"  or  "King  Lear,"  or  "The 
Merchant  of  Venice,"  should  have  concealed  his 
personality  so  carefully  that  three  centuries  have 
elapsed  before  men  could  discover  it — this  is  an 
enigma  no  man  can  solve.  In  general,  it  is  ob 
jected  by  non-believers  in  Shakespeare  that  it  is 
impossible  to  conceive  of  a  man  whose  rearing  pos 
sessed  so  few  advantages  as  did  that  of  Shakes 
peare,  having  written  the  plays  attributed  to  him. 
This  is  really  the  strong  point  in  the  whole  dis- 


ICONOCIyASM    IN    LITERATURE  195 

cussion.  All  other  arguments  are  subordinate.  It 
is  admitted  that  it  does  seem  impossible  for  the 
poacher  and  wild  country  lad  to  become  the  poet 
pre-eminent  in  English  literature.  But  this  ques 
tion  is  not  to  be  decided  by  a  priori  reasoning.  The 
genius  displayed  in  the  dramatic  works  under  con 
sideration  is  little  less  than  miraculous.  This  all 
concede.  Now,  history  has  shown  that  to  genius 
there  is  a  sense  in  which  "all  things  are  possible." 
Genius  can  cross  the  Alps,  can  conquer  Europe, 
can  dumfound  the  world.  Genius  knows  no  rules. 
Once  allow  genius,  and  the  problem  is  solved.  It 
is  conceded  that  for  a  common  man,  or  even  for 
one  of  exceptional  ability,  to  have  acquired  without 
help  the  learning  which  characterizes  the  works  of 
Shakespeare  is  impossible.  But  the  man  who  wrote 
Hamlet  was  no  mediocre,  be  he  Bacon  or  Shakes 
peare.  He  was  a  superlative  genius.  This  fact 
admitted,  we  need  have  no  difficulty  with  the  prob 
lem.  It  becomes  a  question  a  child  can  answer. 
The  "myriad-minded  Shakespeare"  could  do  what 
to  an  ordinary,  or  even  extraordinary,  man  would 
be  an  absolute  impossibility.  One  critic  discovers 
Shakespeare  to  be  a  musician ;  another,  a  classical 
scholar ;  and  so  he  has  been  claimed  in  almost  every 
field.  He  was  not  all.  So  critics  confound  us. 
They  also  confound  themselves.  The  genius  which 
could  write  the  plays  could  master  all  these,  though 
he  squandered  his  youth.  Let  the  history  of  genius 


196      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

guide  from  this  labyrinth.  Was  not  Caesar  orator, 
general,  historian?  Was  not  Napoleon  the  same? 
Does  not  genius  destroy  all  demonstrations  with 
reference  to  itself  ?  Do  not  Pascal,  Euler,  Da  Vinci, 
and  Angelo  confound  us  ?  How  dare  we  dogmatize 
as  to  the  doings  of  genius  ?  Read  Shakespeare,  and 
find  you  can  not  discover  the  characteristic  of  the 
man.  You  can  not  in  his  writings  read  his  interior 
life.  David  Copperfield  may  display  Dickens,  and 
Byron's  poems  may  give  us  the  author's  auto 
biography,  and  Shelley's  writings  may  give  a  photo 
graph  of  his  intellectual  self;  but  Shakespeare's 
plays  give  no  clew  to  his  character.  He  is  all.  He 
grovels  in  Falstaff;  he'  towers  in  Prospero.  He 
smites  all  strings  that  have  music  in  them.  He 
baffles  us  like  a  spirit,  hiding  himself  in  darkness. 
To  attribute  the  authorship  of  the  plays  to  Bacon 
is,  to  my  thought,  not  to  rid  us  of  our  difficulty,  but 
rather  to  increase  difficulty.  Bacon  we  know.  He 
was  jurist,  statesman,  natural  philosopher.  Add 
to  these  the  possibility  of  his  having  written 
Shakespeare,  and  the  magnificence  of  his  achieve 
ment  would  dwarf  that  of  Shakespeare.  Space  for 
bids  dwelling  on  this  longer,  though  the  theme  is 
fascinating  to  any  lover  of  letters.  The  thought  in 
this  paper  (and  that  goes  without  the  saying)  is,  not 
to  discuss  thoroughly  these  various  phases  of  lit 
erary  iconoclasm,  but  rather  to  call  attention  to 
them  and  to  co-ordinate  them. 


ICONOCI.ASM  IN  LITERATURE  197 

I  desire  to  show  that  these  phases  of  criticism 
are  not  difficult  of  explanation.  These  are  natural, 
and  are  the  outgrowth  of  an  image-making  age. 
Study  the  age,  understand  it  thoroughly,  and  the 
literature  of  that  period  can  hardly  be  a  puzzling 
question.  The  nineteenth  century  will  stand  in 
history  as  the  chiefest  iconoclast  which  has  arisen 
in  the  world's  first  six  thousand  years.  And  its 
science,  statecraft,  art,  and  literature  will  be  looked 
upon  as  segments  of  the  one  circle,  and  that  circle 
the  century. 


VII 
Tennyson  the  Dreamer 

MY  earliest  recollections  of  Alfred  Tennyson 
are  associated  with  the  old  Harper's  volume, 
green-bound,  large-paged,  and  frontispieced  with 
two  pictures  of  the  poet — one  of  them,  a  face 
bearded,  thoughtful,  with  eyes  seeming  not  to  see 
the  near,  but  the  remote;  a  head  well-poised  and 
noble,  with  hair  tangled  as  if  matted  by  the  wind; 
the  face,  as  I  a  lad  thought,  of  a  dreamer  and  a 
poet ;  and  my  first  impressions,  I  think,  were  right, 
since  the  years  are  confirmatory  of  this  first  con 
viction.  The  second  portrait  pictured  the  poet 
wrapped  in  his  cloak,  standing,  lost  in  thought, 
alone  upon  a  cliff,  gazing  solitary  at  the  sea,  and 
listening.  If  I  do  not  mistake,  these  pictures  caught 
the  poet's  spirit  in  so  far  as  pictures  can  portray 
spirit.  Tennyson  was  always  alone  beside  a  sea, 
looking,  listening,  dreaming ;  and  as  dreamer  this 
article  purposes  portraying  him. 

Tennyson  was,  his  life  through,  a  recluse.  He 
dwelt  apart.  He  was  as  one  who  stands  afar  off 
and  listens  to  the  shock  of  battle,  hears  the  echo  of 
cannon's  roar,  and  so  conceives  a  remote  picture 

198 


TXHHYSON  THE  DREAMBE  199 

of  the  tragedy  of  onset  English  poetry  began  with 
Chaucer,  outrider  to  a  king,  associate  with  State 
affairs,  participant  in  those  turbulencies  recorded 
in  Froissart's  voluble  "Chronicles.*'  He  was  a 
courtier.  Camp  and  king's  antechamber  and  em- 
bassage  and  battle  made  the  arsis  and  thesis  of  his 
poetry,  and  his  poems  are  a  picture  of  Edward 
Ill's  age,  accurate  as  if  a  king's  pageant  passing 
flung  shadow  in  a  stream  along  whose  bank  it 
marched.  Spenser  was  a  recluse,  looking  on  the 
world's  movement  as  an  Oriental  woman  watches 
the  street  from  her  latticed  window.  Shakespeare 
was  ban  vivant,  a  player,  therefore  a  brief  chronicler 
of  that  time  and  of  all  times.  He  floated  in  people 
as  birds  in  air.  Dramatists  have  need  to  study  men 
and  women  as  a  sculptor  does  anatomy.  Seclusions 
are  not  the  qualifications  for  dramatic  art.  Dryden 
was  court  follower  and  sycophant  and  a  literary 
debauchee.  Milton  was  publicist  Burns,  loving 
and  longing  for  courts  and  society,  was  enforced 
in  his  seclusion,  and  therefore  angry  at  it  Words 
worth  dwelt  apart  from  men,  as  one  who  lives  far 
from  a  public  thoroughfare,  where  neither  the  dust 
nor  bustle  of  travel  can  touch  his  bower  of  quiet; 
in  its  quality  of  isolation,  Grasmere  was  an  island 
in  remote  seas.  Keats  was  a  lad,  dreaming  in  some 
dim  Creek  temple,  listening  to  a  fountain's  plash 
at  midnight  which  never  whitened  into  dawn. 

Nor  does  there  seem  to  be  reasonable  room  for 


2oo       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

doubt  that  poetry,  aside  from  the  drama,  gains  by 
seclusion  and  solitude.  Much  of  Bayard  Taylor's 
verse  has  a  delicious  flavor  of  poetry.  He  could 
write  dreamily,  as  witness  "The  Metempsychosis  of 
the  Pine"  and  "Hylas,"  or  he  brings  us  into  an 
Arab's  tent  as  fellow-guest  with  him;  but  he  be 
longed  too  much  to  the  world.  Traveler,  news 
paper  correspondent,  translator,  ambassador,  he 
was  all  these,  and  his  varied  exploits  and  attrition 
of  the  crowded  world  hindered  the  cadences  of  his 
poetry.  William  Cullen  Bryant  lost  as  poet  by 
being  journalist,  his  vocation  drying  up  the  foun 
tains  of  his  poetry.  America's  representative  poet, 
James  Russell  Lowell,  was  editor,  essayist,  diplo 
mat,  poet, — in  every  department  distinguished. 
His  essay  on  Dante  ranks  him  among  the  great  ex 
positors  of  that  melancholy  Florentine.  Yet  who  of 
us  has  not  wished  he  might  have  consecrated  him 
self  to  poetry  as  priest  to  the  altar?  We  gained 
in  the  publicist  and  essayist,  but  lost  from  the  poet. 
And  our  ultimate  loss  out-topped  our  gain;  for 
essayists  and  ambassadors  are  more  numerous  than 
poets.  Had  Lowell  been  a  man  of  one  service, 
and  that  service  poetry,  what  might  he  not  have 
left  us  as  a  poet's  bequest  ?  Would  he  had  lived  in 
some  forest  primeval,  from  whose  shadows  moun 
tains  climbed  to  meet  the  dawns,  and  streams  stood 
in  silver  pools  or  broke  into  laughter  on  the  stones, 
and  where  winds  among  the  pines  were  constant 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  201 

ministrants  of  melody !  Solitudes  minister  to  poets. 
You  can  hear  a  fountain  best  at  midnight,  because 
then  quiet  rules. 

Tennyson  was  a  solitary.  Hallam  Tennyson's 
biography  of  the  laureate  resents  the  opinion  that 
his  father  was  unsocial,  but  really  leaves  the  com 
monly-received  opinion  unrefuted.  Tennyson's 
reticence  and  love  of  contemplation  and  aloneness 
amounted  to  a  passion.  He  was  not  a  man  of  the 
people.  He  fled  from  tourists  as  if  they  brought  a 
plague  with  them.  He  did  nothing  but  dream. 
You  might  as  easily  catch  the  whip-poor-will, 
whose  habitation  changes  at  an  approaching  step,  as 
Tennyson.  His  was  not  in  the  widest  sense  a  com 
panionable  nature.  He  cared  to  be  alone  and  to  be 
let  dream,  and  resented  intrusion  and  a  disturbance 
.of  his  solitude.  Some  have  dreamless  sleep,  like 
the  princess  in  "The  Sleeping  Beauty ;"  others  sleep 
to  dream,  and  to  wake  them  by  a  hand's  touch  or 
a  voice,  however  loved,  would  be  to  break  the  sweet 
continuity  of  their  dreams.  Seeing  Tennyson  was 
as  he  was,  his  solitude  helped  him.  I  think  moon 
light  was  wine  to  his  spirit,  and  the  dim  voices  of 
rolling  breakers  heard  afar  woke  his  passion  and 
his  poetry.  The 

"Break,  break,  break, 
On  thy  cold,  gray  stones,  O  sea!" 

was  what  his  spirit  needed  as  qualification  to 
"Utter  the  thoughts  that  arise  in  me." 


2O2       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

A  dramatist  needs  the  touching  of  living  hands  and 
sound  of  living  human  voices,  the  uproar  of  the 
human  sea;  for  is  he  not  poet  of  street  and  court 
and  market-place  and  holiday?  But  there  is  a 
poetry  which  needs  these  accessories  as  little  as  a 
lover  needs  a  throng  to  keep  him  company. 
Tennyson's  poetry  was  such.  We  are  not  to  con 
ceive  him  as  Lord  Tennyson  and  inhabitant  of  the 
House  of  Lords.  He  did  not  belong  there  save  as 
a  recognition  of  splendid  ability.  If  we  are  to  get 
a  clew  to  his  genius,  he  must  always  be  conceived 
as  a  recluse,  who  truly  heard  the  world's  words,  but 
at  a  dim  remove.  There  is  remoteness  in  his 
poetry.  The  long  ago  was  the  day  whose  sunlight 
flooded  his  path.  The  illustrious  Greek  era  and 
the  Mediaeval  Age  were  fields  where  his  hosts  mus 
tered  for  battle.  Consider  how  little  of  Tennyson's 
noblest  poetry  belongs  to  his  own  era.  "The  May 
Queen;"  "Locksley  Hall,"  and  its  complement, 
"Sixty  Years  After;"  "In  a  Hospital  Ward;"  "The 
Grandmother;"  his  patriotic  effusions;  "Maud;" 
and  "In  Memoriam,"  sum  up  the  modern  contri 
butions  ;  nor  is  all  of  this  impregnated  with  a  genu 
inely  modern  spirit.  "Enoch  Arden"  might  have 
belonged  to  a  lustrum  of  centuries  ago,  and  "The 
May  Queen"  to  remote  decades.  He  writes  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  rarely  of  it,  though,  as  is  in 
evitable,  he  colors  his  thoughts  of  long-ago  yester 
days  with  the  colors  of  to-day.  He  is  not  strictly 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  203 

a  contemporaneous  poet.  "Dora,"  "The  Gardener's 
Daughter,"  and  others  of  the  sort,  have  no  time 
ear-marks.  "The  Princess"  discusses  a  living  prob 
lem,  but  from  the  artistic  background  of  a  knightly 
era.  "Locksley  Hall,"  earlier  and  later,  "Maud" 
and  "In  Memoriam"  are  about  the  only  genuinely 
contemporaneous  poems.  My  suggestion  is, 
Tennyson  hugs  the  shadows  of  yesterdays;  nor 
need  we  go  far  to  find  the  philosophy  of  this  seizure 
of  the  past.  Romance  gathers  in  twilights.  It  is 
hard  to  persuade  ourselves  that  those  heroisms 
which  make  souls  mighty  as  the  gods,  belong  to 
here  and  now.  Imagination  fixes  this  golden  age 
in  what  Tennyson  would  call  "the  underworld"  of 
time.  Greek  mythology  was  the  essential  poetry 
of  nature,  and  mediaevalism  the  essential  poetry  of 
manhood.  Nothing,  as  appears  to  me,  was  more 
accurate  and  in  keeping  with  Tennysonian  genius 
than  this  choosing  Greek  antiquity  and  medisevalism 
as  the  theater  for  his  poetry;  for  he  was  the  chief 
romance  poet  since  Edmund  Spenser.  Spenser 
and  Tennyson  are  the  poets  laureate  of  chivalry. 
What  Spenser  did  in  his  age,  that  Tennyson  did  in 
his.  So  recall  the  chronological  location  of  Tenny 
son's  poetry.  "Tithonus,"  "GEnone,"  "Ulysses," 
"Tiresias,"  "Amphion,"  "The  Hesperides,"  "The 
Merman,"  "Demeter  and  Persephone."  Do  we  not 
se'em  rather  reading  titles  from  some  classic  poet 
than  from  a  poet  of  the  nineteenth  century? 


204       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K 

The  historical  trilogy  belongs  to  the  mediaeval 
centuries;  "Harold,"  "a  Becker,"  and  "Queen 
Mary"  are  of  yesterday.  Tennyson  reached  back 
ward,  as  a  child  reaches  over  toward  its  mother. 
"Boadicea"  belongs  to  a  still  earlier  age  of  English 
history ;  and  certainly  "The  Idyls  of  the  King"  "Sir 
Galahad,"  "St.  Simeon  Stylites,"  "St.  Agnes,"  "The 
Mystic,"  "Merlin  and  the  Gleam,"  belong  to  the 
romantic,  half-hidden  era  of  history  and  of  thought. 
"Sir  John  Oldcastle"  and  "Columbus"  belong  to  the 
visible  historic  era,  while  in  his  wonderful  "Rizpah" 
the  poet  has  knit  the  present  to  dim  centuries  of  the 
remotest  past ;  and  the  tragic  "Lucretius"  takes  us 
once  more  into  the  classic  period.  To  the  purely 
romantic  belong  "Recollections  of  the  Arabian 
Nights,"  "The  Lotos-Eaters,"  "The  Talking  Oak," 
"A  Dream  of  Fair  Women,"  and  "Godiva."  Now 
subtract  these  poems  and  their  kin  from  the  bulk 
of  Tennyson's  poetry,  and  the  remainder  will  ap 
pear  comparatively  small.  Certainly  we  may  affirm 
with  safety  that  Tennyson  was  poet  of  the  past. 

You  can  get  the  poetry  of  the  Alhambra  only 
by  moonlight ;  and  to  a  mind  so  wholly  poetic  as 
Tennyson's  it  seemed  possible  to  get  the  poetry  of 
conduct  only  by  seeing  it  in  the  moonlight  of  de 
parted  years.  To-day  is  matter-of-fact  in  dress  and 
design ;  medievalism  was  fanciful,  picturesque,  ro 
mantic.  Chivalry  was  the  poetry  of  the  Christ  in 
civilization ;  and  the  knight  warring  to  recover  the 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  205 

tomb  of  God  was  the  poem  among  soldiers,  and  in 
entire  consonance  with  his  nature,  Tennyson's 
poetic  genius  flits  back  into  the  poetic  days,  as  I 
have  seen  birds  flit  back  into  a  forest.  In  Tenny 
son's  poetry  two  things  are  clear.  They  are  medi 
aeval  in  location;  they  are  modern  in  temper. 
Their  geography  is  yesterday,  their  spirit  is  to-day ; 
and  so  we  have  the  questions  and  thoughts  of  our 
era  as  themes  for  Tennyson's  voice  and  lute.  His 
treatment  is  ancient:  his  theme  is  recent.  He 
has  given  diagnosis  and  alleviation  of  present  sick 
ness,  but  hides  face  and  voice  behind  morion  and 
shield. 

Tennyson  celebrates  the  return  to  nature.    This 
return  "The  Poet's  Song"  voices: 

"The  rain  had  fallen,  the  Poet  arose; 

He  passed  by  the  town  and  out  of  the  street; 
A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun, 

And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  a  lonely  place, 

And  chanted  a  melody  loud  and  sweet, 
That  made  the  wild-swan  pause  in  her  cloud, 

And  the  lark  drop  down  at  his  feet 

The  swallow  stopt  as  he  hunted  the  bee, 

The  snake  slipt  under  a  spray; 
The  wild  hawk  stood  with  the  down  on  his  beak, 

And  stared,  with  his  foot  on  the  prey; 
And   the   nightingale    thought,    'I    have    sung    many 
songs, 

But  never  a  one  so  gay; 
For  he  sings  of  what  the  world  will  be 

When  the  years  have  died  away.' " 


206       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

Away  from  palaces  to  solitude;  out  of  cities  to 
hedgerows  and  the  woods  and  wild-flowers, — there 
is  the  secret  of  perennial  poetry.  And  Tennyson 
is  the  climax  of  this  dissent  from  Pope  and  Dryden 
as  elaborated  in  Goldsmith,  Cowper,  Burns, 
Thomson,  and  Wordsworth.  The  best  of  this 
wine  was  reserved  for  the  last  of  the  feast;  for 
Tennyson  appears  to  me  the  greatest  of  the  nature 
poets.  And  this  return  to  nature,  as  the  phrase 
goes,  means  taking  this  earth  as  a  whole,  which  we 
are  to  do  more  and  still  more.  Thomson's  poetry 
was  not  pastoral  poetry  at  its  best;  seeing  inani 
mate  nature  is  not  in  itself  sufficient  theme  for 
poetry,  lacking  passion,  depth,  power.  Sunrise, 
and  flowing  stream,  and  tossing  seas  are  valuable 
as  associates  of  the  soul  and  helping  it  to  self- 
understanding.  Tennyson  took  both  men  and 
nature  into  his  interpretation  of  nature.  His 
voice  it  is,  saying, 

"O  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me!" 

The  sea  helps  the  soul's  lack  by  supplying  words 
and  music.  Tennyson  never  was  at  his  best  in  a 
National  Ode,  unless  one  speaks  from  the  elocu 
tionary  standpoint,  because  such  tasks  lack  the 
poetical  essential  of  spontaneity,  and  because,  too, 
the  'themes  seem  to  carry  him  outside  of  his  nature- 
mood.  Art  in  our  century  has  gone  out  of  doors. 


207 

Scenery  has  never  had  lovers  as  now ;  and  partici 
pative  in  this  mood  is  Tennyson.  He  lives  under 
the  sky.  He  loved  to  be  alone ;  and  nature  is  lone 
liness  as  well  as  loveliness.  Nor  is  his  love  of 
nature  a  passing  passion,  but  is  passionate,  intense, 
endearing.  He  never  outgrew  it.  "Balin  and 
Balan"  is  as  beautiful  with  nature-similes  as  were 
"Enid"  and  "GECnone."  In  Tennyson  we  have  the 
odors  of  the  country  and  the  sea  and  the  dewy 
night.  He  is  laureate  of  the  stars.  Nature  is  not 
introduced,  but  his  poems  seem  set  in  nature  as 
daisies  in  a  meadow.  He  was  no  city  poet.  Of  the 
poet  Blake,  James  Thomson  writes : 

"He  came  to  the  desert  of  London  town 
Gray  miles  long. 

He  wandered  up,  he  wandered  down, 
Singing  a  quiet  hymn." 

Not  so  Tennyson.  London  and  he  were  com 
patriots,  but  not  friends;  for  he  belonged  to  the 
quiet  of  the  country  woods,  and  the  clamor  of  sea 
gulls  and  sea-waves,  whose  very  tumult  drown  the 
voice  of  care.  Tennyson  was  to  express  the  yearn 
ing  of  his  era,  and  his  poems  are  a  cry;  for,  like  a 
babe,  he  has 

"No  language  but  a  cry." 

Our  yearning  is  our  glory.  The  superb  forces  of 
our  spirits  are  inarticulate,  and  can  not  be  put  to 
words,  but  may  be  put  to  the  melody  of  a  yearning 


2o8       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

cry.  Souls  struggle  toward  expression  like  a  dying 
soldier  who  would  send  a  message  to  'his  beloved, 
but  can  not  frame  words  therefor  before  he  dies. 
Our  pathos  is — and  our  yearning  is — 

"O  would  that  my  lips  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me!" 

But  we  have  no  words ;  and  Holmes,  in  his  most 
delicately-beautiful  poem,  entitled  "The  Voiceless," 
has  made  mention  of  this  grief: 

"We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber; 
But  o'er-  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers,  who  will  stoop  to  number? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them: 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone, 

Whose  song  has  told  their  heart's  sad  story, — 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 
Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 

Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine, 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses, — 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  209 

If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven!" 

Souls  cry,  "Give  us  a  voice ;"  and  nature  enters 
into  our  yearning  moods.  The  autumn  and  the  rain 
grieve  with  us,  and  June  makes  merry  with  us  as  at 
a  festival,  and  the  deep  sky  gives  room  for  the  soar 
ing  of  our  aspirations,  and  the  solemn  night  says, 
"Dream !"  And  for  our  heartache  and  longing, 
Tennyson  is  our  voice ;  for  he  seems  near  neighbor 
to  us.  He  lay  on  a  bank  of  violets,  and  looked  into 
the  sky,  and  heard  poplars  pattering  as  with  rain 
upon  the  roof.  Really,  in  all  Tennyson's  poems 
you  will  be  surprised  at  the  affluence  of  his  refer 
ence  to  nature.  His  custom  was  to  make  the  moods 
of  nature  to  be  explanatory  of  the  moods  of  the 
soul.  Man  needs  nature  as  birds  need  air,  and 
flowers,  and  waving  trees,  and  the  dear  sun. 
Tennyson  will  make  appeal  to 

"The  flower  in  the  crannied  wall" 

by  way  of  silencing  the  agnostic's  prating  against 
God.    Hear  him : 

"Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 
I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies — 
Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 
Little  flower, — but  if  I  could  understand 
What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is." 
14 


210       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER  FOI,K 

Here  follow  a  few,  among  many,  very  many,  de 
licious  references  to  the  out-of-door  world  we  name 
nature,  as  explanatory  of  the  indoor  world  we  call 
soul: 

"Who  make  it  seem  more  sweet  to  be 
The  little  life  on  bank  and  brier, 
The  bird  that  pipes  his  lone  desire 
And  dies  unheard  within  his  tree." 

"A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 

A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 
But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
Forever  and  forever." 

"Storm'd  in  orbs  of  song,  a  growing  gale." 

"I  saw  that  every  morning,  far  withdrawn, 
Beyond  the  darkness  and  the  cataract, 
God  made  himself  an  awful  rose  of  dawn, 
Unheeded." 

"There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry; 
But  thou  go  by." 

"As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, — 
O  we  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, — 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears." 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  211 

"Set  in  a  cataract  on  an  island-crag, 
When  storm  is  on  the  heights  of  the  long  hills." 

"Tall  as  a  figure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine." 

"Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven,  and  take  the  shape, 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answered  thee? 
Ask  me  no  more." 

"And  she,  as  one  that  climbs  a  peak  to  gaze 
O'er  land  and  main,  and  sees  a  great  black  cloud 
Drag  inward  from  the  deeps,  a  wall  of  night." 

"That  like  a  broken  purpose  wastes  in  air." 

"To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 
The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God." 

"So  be  it:  there  no  shade  can  last 

In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 
But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall  bloom 
The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past." 

"I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray." 

"But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow  brooks, 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 
That  gather  in  the  waning  woods." 

"From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas, 
On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  Orient  star 
A  hundred  spirits  whisper  'Peace.'  " 


ai2       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

"There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree: 

0  earth,  what  changes  thou  hast  seen! 
There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 

The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 

The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go." 

"If  e'er  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 

1  heard  a  voice,  'Believe  no  more,' 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  godless  deep." 

"As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it." 

"Whole,  like  a  crag  that  tumbles  from  the  cliff, 
And  like  a  crag  was  gay  wiih  wilding  flowers; 
And  high  above  a  piece  of  turret  stair, 
Worn  by  the  feet  that  now  were  silent,  would 
Bare  to  the  sun,  and  monstrous  ivy-stems 
Claspt  the  gray  walls  with  hairy-fibered  arms, 
And  suck'd  the  joining  of  the  stones,  and  look'd 
A  knot,  beneath,  of  snakes;  aloft,  a  grove." 

"For  as  a  leaf  in  mid-November  is 
To  what  it  was  in  mid-October,  seem'd 
The  dress  that  now  she  look'd  on  to  the  dress 
She  look'd  on  ere  the  coming  of  Geraint." 

"That  had  a  sapling  growing  on  it,  slip 
From  the  long  shore-cliff's  windy  walls  to  the  beach, 
And  there  lie  still,  and  yet  the  sapling  grew: 
So  lay  the  man  transfixt." 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  213 

"For  one 

That  listens  near  a  torrent  mountain-brook, 
All  thro'  the  crash  of  the  near  cataract  hears 
The  drumming  thunder  of  the  huger  fall 
At  distance,  were  the  soldiers  wont  to  hear 
His  voice  in  battle,  and  be  kindled  by  it." 

"And  in  the  moment  after,  wild  Limours, 
Borne  on  a  black  horse,  like  a  thunder-cloud 
Whose  skirts  are  loosen'd  by  the  breaking  storm, 
Half  ridden  off  with  by  the  thing  he  rode, 
And  all  in  passion,  uttering  a  dry  shriek, 
Dash'd  on  Geraint." 

"Where,  like  a  shoaling  sea,  the  lovely  blue 
Play'd  into  green,  and  thicker  down  the  front 
With  jewels  than  the  sward  with  drops  of  dew, 
When  all  niglit  long  a  cloud  clings  to  the  hill, 
And  with  the  dawn  ascending  lets  the  day 
Strike  where  it  clung:  so  thickly  shone  the  gems." 

"As  the  southwest  that  blowing  Bala  Lake 
Fills  all  the  sacred  Dee.    So  past  the  days." 

"In  the  midnight  and  flourish  of  his  May." 

"Only  you  would  not  pass  beyond  the  cape 
That  has  the  poplar  on  it." 

"And  at  the  inrunning  of  a  little  brook, 
Sat  by  the  river  in  a  cove  and  watch'd 
The  high  reed  wave,  and  lifted  up  his  eyes 
And  saw  the  barge  that  brought  her  moving  down, 
Far  off,  a  blot  upon  the  stream,  and  said, 
Low  in  himself,  'Ah,  simple  heart  and  sweet, 
You  loved  me,  damsel,  surely  with  a  love 
Far  tenderer  than  my  Queen's!'" 


214      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

"Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast." 

"A  carefuler  in  peril  did  not  breathe 
For  leagues  along  that  breaker-beaten  coast 
Than  Enoch.     .     .    .     And  he  thrice  had  pluck'd  a  life 
From  the  dread  sweep  of  the  down-streaming  seas." 

"All-kindled  by  a  still  and  sacred  fire, 
That  burned  as  on  an  altar." 

"With  kisses  balmier  than  half-opening  buds 
Of  April,  and  could  hear  the  lips  that  kiss'd, 
Whispering  I  knew  not  what  of  wild  and  sweet, 
Like  that  strange  song  I  heard  Apollo  sing, 
While  Ilion,  like  a  mist,  rose  into  towers." 

"Dearer  and  nearer,  as  the  rapid  of  life 
Shoots  to  the  fall." 

"That  sets  at  twilight  in  a  land  of  reeds." 
"And  wearying  in  a  land  of  sand  and  thorns." 

"Pelleas  and  sweet  smell  of  the  fields 
Past,  and  the  sunshine  came  along  with  him." 

"By  a  mossed  brookbank  on  a  stone 
I  smelt  a  wildweed  flower  alone; 
There  was  a  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  both  my  eyes  gushed  out  with  tears." 

"Clash  like  the  coming  and  retiring  wave." 

"Quiet  as  any  water-sodden  log 
Stay'd  in  the  wandering  warble  of  a  brook." 

"The  wide-wing'd  sunset  of  the  misty  marsh." 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  215 

From  these  quotations,  not  exhaustive,  but  rep 
resentative,  one  may  see  in  how  gracious  a  sense 
Tennyson  was  a  pastoral  poet,  in  that  he  and  his 
thought  haunted  the  brookside  and  the  mountain 
side,  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine,  the  dark  night, 
or  dewy  eve,  or  the  glad  dawn,  always.  Therefore 
is  Tennyson  a  rest  to  the  spirit.  He  takes  you 
from  your  care,  and  ends  by  taking  your  care  from 
you.  He  quiets  your  spirit.  I  go  to  his  poems  as 
I  would  go  to  seashore  or  mountain;  and  a  quiet 
deep,  as  the  gently  falling  night,  wraps  my  spirit. 
Bless  him  always  for  the  rest  he  knows  to  give  and 
cares  to  give ! 

Tennyson's  genius  is  lyrical  rather  than  either 
dramatic  or  epic.  What  music  is  like  his?  Say  of 
his  poems,  in  words  of  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 

"O  but  the  sound  was  rainy  sweet!" 

Not  great  Milton  was  more  master  of  music  than 
he ;  though  Milton's  was  the  melody  of  wide  ocean 
in  open  sea,  or  crash  of  waves  upon  the  rugged 
rocks,  or  wrathing  up  the  yellow  sands  in  tumult 
of  majestic  menace.  Tennyson's  music  is  rather 
the  voice  of  gentle  waters,  or  the  cadence  of  sum 
mer's  winds  in  the  tree-tops,  or  like  human  voices 
heard  in  some  woodland.  In  either  poet  is  no 
marred  music.  Mrs.  Browning  fell  out  of  time; 
Tennyson  never.  His  verse  is  like  some  loved 
voice  which  makes  perpetual  music  in  our  heart. 


2i6       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K 

Read  all  of  his  poetry,  and  how  diversified  soever 
his  meter  is,  music  never  fails ;  yet  his  lyrics  are  not 
as  those  of  Burns,  whose  words  sing  like  the  brook 
Tennyson  has  sung  of.  Burns's  melody  is  laughter : 
it  babbles,  it  sighs  for  a  moment,  but  will  sing.  But 
Tennyson's  is  not  laughter.  He  is  no  joyous  poet. 
Burns  has  tears  which  wet  his  lashes,  scarcely  his 
cheeks.  Tennyson's  cheeks  are  wet.  He  is  the 
music  of  winds  in  pine-trees  in  a  lonely  land,  or  as 
a  sea  breaking  upon  a  shore  of  rock  and  wreck ; 
but  how  passing  sweet  the  music  is,  stealing  your 
ruggedness  away,  so  that  to  be  harsh  in  thought 
or  diction  in  his  presence  seems  a  crime ! 

Lyric  differs  from  epic  poetry  in  sustainedness. 
One  form  of  poetry  runs  into  another  imperceptibly, 
as  darkness  into  daylight  or  daylight  into  dark 
ness,  so  that  the  dividing  line  can  not  be  certified. 
Lyric  poetry  may  be  dramatic  in  spirit,  as  Brown 
ing's  "The  Ring  and  the  Book ;"  or  dramatic  poetry 
may  be  lyric  in  spirit,  as  Milton's  "Comus." 
Tennyson  has  written  drama  and  epic  too;  for 
such,  I  think,  clearly  he  proposed  the  "Idyls  of 
the  King"  to  be.  This  we  must  say :  Despite  the 
genial  leniency  of  Robert  Browning's  criticism  of 
the  dramatic  success  of  "Harold,"  and  "Becket," 
and  "The  Cup,"  we  may  safely  refuse  concurrence 
in  judgment.  Irving  made  the  failure  of  the  play 
impossible  when  he  was  character  in  them.  There 
is  no  necessity  of  denying  that  the  so-called  trilogy 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  217 

has  apt  delineation  of  character,  and  that  Green, 
the  historian,  was  justified  in  saying  that  "Becket" 
had  given  him  such  a  conception  of  the  character 
of  that  courtier  and  ecclesiastic  as  all  his  historical 
research  had  not  given;  nor  need  we  deny  that 
these  dramas  are  rich  in  noble  passages.  These 
things  go  without  the  saying,  considering  the  au 
thor  was  Alfred  Tennyson.  In  attempting  a  criti 
cism  of  the  dramatic  value,  however,  the  real  ques 
tion  is  this:  Would  not  "Harold"  and  "Queen 
Mary"  have  been  greater  poems  if  thrown  out  of 
the  dramatic  into  the  narrative  form,  like  "Guine 
vere"  or  "Enoch  Arden?"  "Maud"  is  really  the 
most  dramatic  of  Tennyson's  poems,  and  in  conse 
quence  the  least  understood.  Most  men  at  some 
time  espouse  what  they  can  not  successfully 
achieve.  Was  not  this  Tennyson's  case?  Are  not 
the  portrayal  of  character  and  the  rhythm  and  the 
melody  of  the  drama  qualities  inherent  in  Tenny 
son,  and  are  they  in  any  distinct  sense  dramatic? 
If  we  declare  Tennyson  neither  epic  nor  dramatic, 
but  always  lyric,  adverse  criticism  melts  away  like 
snow  in  summer.  As  lyrist,  all  is  congruous  and 
enthralling.  "The  Idyls  of  the  King,"  as  a  series  of 
lyric  romances,  is  beyond  blame  in  technique. 
Tennyson  tells  a  story.  Dramatic  poetry  takes  the 
story  out  of  the  poet's  lips  and  tells  itself.  The  epic 
requires  a  strong  centrality  of  theme,  movement, 
and  dominancy,  like  a  ubiquitous  sovereign  whose 


2i8      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

power  is  always  felt  in  every  part  of  his  empire. 
Viewing  "The  Idyls  of  the  King"  as  singing  epi 
sodes,  told  us  by  some  wandering  minstrel,  not 
only  do  they  not  challenge  hostile  criticism,  but 
they  take  rank  among  the  noblest  contributions  to 
the  poetry  of  any  language.  "Columbus,"  "Ulys 
ses,"  "Eleanore,"  "Enoch  Arden,"  "Lucretius," 
"TheDay-Dream,"  "Locksley  Hall,"  "Dora,"  "Ayl- 
mer's  Field,"  "The  Gardener's  Daughter,"  have  all 
the  subdued  beauty  of  Wordsworth's  narrative 
poems,  and  are  as  certainly  lyric  as  those  unap 
proachable  lyrics  in  "The  Princess."  The  ocean 
is  epic  in  its  vast  expanse ;  tragic  in  its  power  to 
crush  Armadas  on  the  rocks  and  let  them 

"Rot  in  ribs  of  wreck;" 

and  lyric  in  its  songs,  whether  of  storm  outsound- 
ing  cataracts,  or  the  singing  scarce  above  the  breath 
of  waves  that  silver  the  shores  of  summer  seas. 
Commend  me  to  the  ocean,  and  give  all  the  ocean 
to  me.  Dispossess  me  of  no  might  nor  tragedy  nor 
melody.  Let  the  whole  ocean  be  mine.  So,  though 
Tennyson  be  not  epic  as  Milton,  nor  dramatic  as 
Browning,  he  is  yet  a  mine  of  wealth  untold.  He 
is  more  melodious  than  Spenser  (and  what  a 
praise!)  Tennyson  can  not  write  the  prose,  but 
always  the  poetry  of  life.  So  interpreted,  how  per 
fect  his  execution  becomes !  His  words  distill  like 
dews.  Take  unnumbered  extracts  from  his  poems, 


TENNYSON  THE;  DREAMER  219 

and  they  seem  bits  of  melody,  picked  out  from  na 
ture's  book  of  melodies,  and  in  themselves  and  as 
related  they  satisfy  the  heart.  Let  these  songs  sing 
themselves  to  us: 

"Ask  me  no  more:  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the  shape, 
With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  what  answer  should  I  give? 

I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye; 

Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd; 

I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain; 

Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main; 
No  more,  dear  Love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield; 
Ask  me  no  more." 

"Thy  voice  is  heard  through  rolling  drums, 

That  beat  to  battle  where  he  stands; 
Thy  face  across  his  fancy  comes, 

And  gives  the  battle  to  his  hands: 
A  moment,  while  the  trumpets  blow, 

He  sees  his  brood  about  thy  knee; 
The  next,  like  fire  he  meets  the  foe, 

And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee." 

"O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 
They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river; 


220      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 


Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying,  dying." 

"Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest, 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 

Under  the  silver  moon: 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep." 

And  "Tears,  Idle  Tears,"  is  beyond  all  praise. 
Passion  was  never  wed  to  music  more  deliciously 
and  satisfyingly.  I  am  entranced  by  this  poem 
always,  as  by  God's  poem  of  the  starry  night  : 

"Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean; 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 

That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under  world; 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  221 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 

To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 

The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square; 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

All  these  lyrics  are  such  delights  as  leave  us 
silent,  seeing  we  have  no  words  to  tell  the  glow  of 
spirit  we  feel.  The  genius  of  lyric  poetry  is  its 
power  of  condensation.  The  drama  may  expand, 
the  lyric  must  condense,  and  Tennyson  has  the 
lyric  power,  summing  up  large  areas  of  thought  and 
feeling  into  a  single  sentence  or  a  few  verses,  which 
presents  the  quintessence  of  the  lyric  method.  Im 
mense  passion  poured  into  the  chalice  of  a  solitary 
utterance — this  is  a  song.  Let  the  harpist  sit  and 
sing,  nor  stop  to  wipe  his  tears  what  time  he  sings, 
— only  let  him  sing!  Tennyson  was  as  some  rare 
voice  which  never  grows  husky,  but  always  sounds 
sweet  as  music  heard  in  the  darkness,  and  when  he 
speaks,  it  is  as  if 

"Up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind." 


222       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Tennyson  is  poet  of  love.  Love  is  practically 
always  the  soil  out  of  which  his  flowers  grow. 
Our  American  bards  say  little  of  love,  and  we 
feel  the  lack  keenly.  Love  is  the  native  noble 
man  among  soul-qualities,  and  we  have  become 
schooled  to  feel  the  poets  must  be  our  spokes 
men  here  where  we  need  them  most.  But  Bry 
ant,  nor  Whittier,  nor  Longfellow,  nor  yet 
Lowell,  have  been  in  a  generous  way  erotic 
poets.  They  have  lacked  the  pronounced  passion 
element.  Poe,  however,  was  always  lover  when 
he  wrote  poetry,  and  Bayard  Taylor  has  a  re 
curring  softening  of  the  voice  to  a  caress  when 
his  eyes  look  love.  Tennyson,  on  the  contrary, 
is  scarcely  less  a  love  poet  than  Burns,  though 
he  tells  his  secret  after  a  different  fashion.  Call 
the  roll  of  his  poems,  and  see  how  just  this  ob 
servation  is.  Love  is  nodal  with  him  as  with 
the  heart.  Bourdillon  was  right  in  saying: 

"The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

The  day  has  one; 

Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 
With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one; 
Yet  the  life  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done." 

In  many  poets,  love  is  background,  not  pic 
ture,  or,  to  change  a  figure  as  is  meet,  love  is 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  223 

a  minor  chord  in  song.  In  Shelley,  I  would  say 
that  love  was  a  sort  of  afterglow  upon  the'  land 
scape,  and  softens  his  rigid  anarchy  into  some 
thing  like  beauty.  With  Tennyson  is  a  very  dif 
ferent  offering  to  love.  It  is  omnipresent,  though 
not  obtrusively  so;  for  he  never  obtrudes  his 
main  meanings.  They  rather  steal  on  you  as 
springtime  does.  You  catch  his  meaning  because 
you  are  not  blind  nor  deaf.  He  hints  at  things 
as  lovers  do,  and  is  as  one  who  would  not  thrust 
his  company  upon  you,  so  modest  and  reticent 
is  he ;  yet  we  do  not  mistake  him.  Love  is  always 
close  at  hand,  and  in  some  form  is  never  absent. 
"Mariana,"  "Lady  of  Shalott,"  "Locksley  Hall," 
"Maud,"  "The  Sisters,"  "The  Talking  Oak," 
"Edward  Gray,"  "The  Miller's  Daughter,"  "Har 
old,"  "Queen  Mary,"  "Enoch  Arden,"  and  "The 
Idyls  of  the  King," — is  not  love  everywhere? 
These  are  poems  of  love  between  men  and 
women  as  lovers ;  but  there'  is  other  love.  In  Ten 
nyson:  love  of  country,  as  in  his  "The  Revenge," 
"The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  and  others; 
love  of  nature,  as  "The  Brook ;"  the  love  of  Queen, 
as  in  the  dedication  in  ''The  Idyls  of  the  King;" 
love  of  a  friend  (and  such  love!)  flooding  "In 
Memoriam"  like  spring  tide's;  love  to  God,  as 
"St.  Agnes'  Eve,"  "Sir  Galahad,"  and  in  "King 
Arthur."  By  appeal  to  book  do  we  see  how  his 
poems  constitute  a  literature  of  love;  for  he  is 


224      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

in  essence  saying  continuously,  "Life  means 
love,"  and  we  shall  not  be  those  to  say  him 
nay.  May  we  not  safely  say  no  poet  has  given  a 
more  beautiful  and  sympathetic  explication  of 
love  in  its  entirety?  Browning  has  expressed  the 
sex-love  more  mightily  in  Pompilia  and  Capon- 
sacchi.  Tennyson  has,  however,  given  no  par 
tial  landscape;  he  has  presented  the  whole. 
Love  of  the  lover,  of  the  widowed  heart,  of  the 
friend,  of  the  parent,  of  the  patriot,  of  the  sub 
ject  to  sovereign,  of  the  redeemed  of  God. 
Truly,  this  does  impress  us  as  a  nearly-completed 
circle.  If  it  is  not,  where  lies  the  lack?  Love 
is  life,  gladness,  pathos,  power.  A  humblest 
spirit,  when  touched  with  the  unspeakable  grace 
of  love,  becomes  epic  and  beautiful,  as  is  illus 
trated  in  "Enoch  Arden."  Herein  see  a  sure 
element  of  immortality  in  Tennyson.  The  race 
will  always  with  alacrity  and  sympathy  read  of 
love  in  tale  or  poem;  and  this  poet  is  always 
translating  love's  thought  into  speech. 

And  may  not  this  prevalence  of  love  in  his 
poetry  account  for  Tennyson's  lack  of  humor? 
In  his  conversation,  as  his  son  tells  us,  he  was 
even  jocular,  loving  both  to  hear  and  to  tell  a 
humorous  incident,  and  his  laughter  rang  out 
over  a  good  jest,  a  thing  of  which  we  would  have 
next  to  no  intimation  in  his  poetry;  for  save  in 
"Will  Waterproof's  Lyrical  Monologue"  and 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  225 

"The  Northern  Farmer,"  and  possibly  in  "Am- 
phion,"  his  verse  contains  scarcely  a  vestige  of 
humor.  Certainly  his  writings  can  not  presume 
to  be  humorous.  To  Cervantes,  chivalry  was 
grotesque;  to  Tennyson,  chivalry  was  poetry, — 
there  lay  the  difference.  Our  laureate  caught  not 
the  jest,  but  the  real  poetry  of  that  episode  in  the 
adventure  of  manhood;  and  this  I  take  to  be  the 
larger  and  worthier  lesson.  Cervantes  and  Tenny 
son  were  both  right.  But  Tennyson  caught  the 
vision  of  the  surer,  the  more  enduring  truth. 
With  love,  as  with  chivalry,  he  saw  not  the  humor, 
but  the  beauty  of  it ;  and  beauty  is  always  touched 
with  melancholy.  I  have  sat  a  day  through  read 
ing  all  this  poet's  verse,  and  confess  that  all  the 
day  I  was  not  remote  from  tears,  but  was  as  one 
walking  in  mists  along  an  ocean  shore,  so  that 
on  my  face  was  what  might  be  either  rain  or 
tears.  In  Tennyson, 

"Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned  it  in  its 

glowing  hands; 

Every  moment  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden  sands. 
Love  took  up  the  harp  of  life,  and  smote  on  all  the 

chords  with  might; 
Smote  the  chord  of  self,  that,  trembling,  passed  in  music 

out  of  sight." 

And  Tennyson  is  the  picture  poet.     I  feel  in 
reading  him  as  if  I  were  either  out  of  doors  with 
pictures  seen  at  first-hand,  or  in  a  gallery  with 
15 


226      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 


picture-crowded  walls.  He  is  painter  among" 
poets,  his  art  being  at  once  admirably  inclusive 
and  exclusive  —  including  essentials,  excluding  the 
irrelevant.  He  is  consummate  artist,  giving  pic 
tures  of  things,  and,  what  is  vastly  more  difficult, 
pictures  of  moods.  With  him,  one  never  feels 
and  sees,  but  feels  because  he  sees.  His  ability 
to  recreate  moods  for  us  is  quite  beyond  praise, 
and  is  such  subtle  art  as  defies  analysis  or  char 
acterization,  but  wakens  wonder  and  will  not  let 
it  sleep.  Poets  are,  as  is  affirmed  by  the  lord  of 
all  the  poets, 

"Of  imagination  all  compact;" 

and  may  we  be  delivered  from  a  colorless  world 
and  an  unimaginative  life;  for  such  is  no  life  at 
all  !  God  would  have  men  dream  and  prophesy. 
Because  the  poet  is  artist  and  dreamer,  his  word, 
in  one  form  or  another,  is  "like,"  a  word  patented 
by  poets  ;  and  all  who  use  it  are  become,  in  so  far, 
poets.  Now,  with  Tennyson,  all  things  suggest 
pictures,  as  if  soul  we're  itself  a  landscape  ;  where 
fore,  as  has  been  shown,  he  riots  in  nature-scenes. 
A  simile,  when  full,  like  a  June  day  of  heaven, 
contains  a  plethora,  an  ampleness,  for  which  you 
shall  seek  in  vain  to  find  rules,  much  less  to  make 
them;  which  is  to  say  that  a  perfect  simile  will 
betimes  do  something  for  which  no  reason  can 
be  assigned,  yet  so  answering  to  the  largest  poetry 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  227 

of  the  occasion  as  to  fill  the  mind  with  joy,  as  if 
one  had  discovered  some  new  flower  in  the  woods 
where  he  thought  he  knew  them  all.  One  in 
stance  shall  suffice  as  illustrative : 

"An  agony 

Of  lamentation  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 
All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 
Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world." 

Considering  the  comparison,  we  must  grant 
that,  submitted  to  the  judgment  of  cold  logic,  the 
figure  is  superfluous  and  faulty;  for,  as  a  simple' 
matter  of  fact,  a  wind  blowing  where  no  one 
comes  or  has  come  would  be  not  so  lonely  as  one 
blown  across  a  habitable  and  inhabited  land. 
From  the  standpoint  of  common  observation,  the 
simile  might  be  set  down  as  inaccurate.  But 
who  so  blind  as  not  to  see  that  there  is  no  un 
truth  nor  superfluity  in  the  poet's  art?  He 
means  to  give  the  air  of  utter  loneliness  and  sad 
ness,  and  therefore  pictures  an  untenanted  land 
scape,  across  whose  lonely  wastes  a  lonely  wind 
pursues  its  lonely  way ;  and  thus  having  saturated 
his  thought  with  sadness,  he  transfers  the  lone 
liness  of  the  landscape  to  the  winged  winds. 
This  seems  to  me  the  very  climacteric  of  exquisite 
artistic  skill,  and  I  am  always  delighted  to  the 
point  of  laughter  or  of  tears;  for  moods  run  to 
gether  in  presence  of  such  poetry.  No  poet  of 
my  knowledge  so  haunts  the  illustrative.  In 


228       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

reading  him,  so  perfect  are  the  pictures  that  your 
fingers  itch  to  play  the  artist's  part,  so  you  might 
shadow  some  beauty  on  every  page.  Some 
painter,  working  after  the  manner  of  Turner's 
"Rivers  of  France,"  might  make  himself  im 
mortal  by  devoting  his  life  to  the  adequate  illus 
tration  of  Tennyson.  As  his  verses  sing  them 
selves,  so  his  poems  picture  themselves.  He 
supplies  you  with  painter's  genius.  A  verse  or 
stanza  needs  but  a  frame  to  be  a  choice  painting. 
When  told  that  the  fool 

"Danced  like  a  withered  leaf  before  the  hall," 

we'  must  see  him,  so  vivid  the  scene,  so  lifelike  the 
color. 

I  will  hang  some  pictures  up  as  in  a  gallery : 

"Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on, 

And  took  the  reed-tops  as  it  went" 

"I,  that  whole  day, 

Saw  her  no  more,  although  I  linger'd  there 
Till  every  daisy  slept." 

"Love  with  knit  brows  went  by, 
And  with  a  flying  finger  swept  my  lips." 

"Breathed  like  the  covenant  of  a  God,  to  hold 
From  thence  through  all  the  worlds." 

"Night  slid  down  one  long  stream  of  sighing  wind, 
And  in  her  bosom  bore  the  baby,  Sleep." 

"The  pillar' d  dusk  of  sounding  sycamores." 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  229 

"And  in  the  fallow  leisure  of  my  life." 

"Her  voice  fled  always  through  the  summer  land; 
I  spoke  her  name  alone.    Thrice-happy  days! 
The  flower  of  each,  those  moments  when  we  met, 
The  crown  of  all,  we  met  to  part  no  more." 

"Now,  now,  his  footsteps  smite  the  threshold  stairs 
Of  life." 

"The  drooping  flower  of  knowledge  changed  to  fruit 
Of  wisdom.    Wait." 

"Tall  as  a  figure  lengthen'd  on  the  sand 
When  the  tide  ebbs  in  sunshine." 

"Love,  like  an  Alpine  harebell  hung  with  tears 
By  some  cold  morning  glacier;  frail  at  first 
And  feeble,  all  unconscious  of  itself, 
But  such  as  gather'd  color  day  by  day." 

"I  could  no  more,  but  lay  like  one  in  trance, 
That  hears  his  burial  talk'd  of  by  his  friends, 
And  can  not  speak,  nor  move,  nor  make  one  sign, 
But  lies  and  dreads  his  doom." 

"Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing: 
Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust; 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 
And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing. 

I  hold  it  true,  whate'er  befall; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER 

But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 

And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 

(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 
To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said). 

And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 

But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that  make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears, 
Ah  me!  the  sorrow  deepens  down, 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves  prick, 

And  tingle;  and  the  heart  is  sick, 
And  all  the  wheels  of  being  slow. 

I  can  not  love  thee  as  I  ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  beloved; 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 
We  steer'd  her  toward  a  crimson  cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  231 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 

And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel, 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well." 

"Brawling,  or  like  a  clamor  of  the  rooks 
At  distance,  ere  they  settle  for  the  night." 

"In  words  whose  echo  lasts,  they  were  so  sweet." 
"That  I  could  rest,  a  rock  in  ebbs  and  flows." 

"But  as  a  man  to  whom  a  dreadful  loss 
Falls  in  a  far  land,  and  he  knows  it  not." 

"The  long  way  smoke  beneath  him  in  his  fear." 

"Then,  after  all  was  done  that  hand  could  do, 
She  rested,  and  her  desolation  came 
Upon  her,  and  she  wept  beside  the  way." 

"Seam'd  with  an  ancient  sword-cut  on  the  cheek, 
And  bruised  and  bronzed,  she  lifted  up  her  eyes 
And  loved  him,  with  that  love  which  was  her  doom." 

"And  in  the  meadows  tremulous  aspen-trees 
And  poplars  made  a  noise  of  falling  showers." 

"No  greatness,  save  it  be  some  far-off  touch 
Of  greatness  to  know  well  I  am  not  great." 

"Hurt  in  the  side,  whereat  she  caught  her  breath; 
Through  her  own  side  she  felt  the  sharp  lance  go." 


232       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

"Rankled  in  him  and  ruffled  all  his  heart, 
As  the  sharp  wind  that  ruffles  all  day  long 
A  little  bitter  pool  about  a  stone 
On  the  bare  coast." 

"Thy  shadow  still  would  glide  from  room  to  room, 
And  I  should  evermore  be  vext  with  thee 
In  hanging  robe  or  vacant  ornament, 
Or  ghostly  footfall  echoing  on  the  stair." 

"Far  off  a  solitary  trumpet  blew. 
Then,  waiting  by  the  doors,  the  war-horse  neigh'd 
As  at  a  friend's  voice,  and  he  spake  again." 

"Through  the  thick  night  I  hear  the  trumpet  blow." 

"And  slipt  aside,  and  like  a  wounded  life 
Crept  down  into  the  hollows  of  the  wood." 

"Then  Philip,  with  his  eyes 
Full  of  that  lifelong  hunger,  and  his  voice 
Shaking  a  little  like  a  drunkard's  hand." 

"Had  he  not 

Spoken  with  That,  which  being  everywhere 
Lets  none,  who  speaks  with  Him,  seem  all  alone, 
Surely  the  man  had  died  of  solitude." 

"Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard." 

"For  sure  no  gladlier  does  the  stranded  wreck 
See  through  the  gray  skirts  of  a  lifting  squall 
The  boat  that  bears  the  hope  of  life  approach 
To  save  the  life  despair'd  of,  than  he  saw 
Death  dawning  on  him,  and  the  close  of  all." 

"And  he  lay  tranced;  but  when  he  rose  and  paced 
Back  toward  his  solitary  home  again, 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  233 

All  down  the  narrow  street  he  went, 
Beating  it  in  upon  his  weary  brain, 
As  though  it  were  the  burthen  of  a  song, 
'Not  to  tell  her,  never  to  let  her  know.'  " 

"Torn  as  a  sail  that  leaves  the  rope  is  torn 
In  tempest." 

"Nay,  one  there  is,  and  at  the  eastern  end, 
Wealthy  with  wandering  lines  of  mount  and  mere." 

"Prick'd  with  incredible  pinnacles  into  heaven." 

"An  out-door  sign  of  all  the  warmth  within, 
Smiled  with  his  lips — a  smile  beneath  a  cloud; 
But  Heaven  had  meant  it  for  a  sunny  one." 

"All  the  old  echoes  hidden  in  the  wall." 

"Their  plumes  driv'n  backward  by  the  wind  they  made 
In  moving,  all  together  down  upon  him 
Bare,  as  a  wild  wave  in  the  wide  North  sea, 
Green-glimmering  toward  the  summit,  bears,  with  all 
Its  stormy  crests  that  smoke  against  the  skies, 
Down  on  a  baric,  and  overbears  the  bark, 
And  him  that  helms  it,  so  they  overbore 
Sir  Lancelot  and  his  charger." 

"There  lies  a  vale  in  Ida,  lovelier 
Than  all  the  valleys  of  Ionian  hills. 
The  swimming  vapor  slopes  athwart  the  glen, 
Puts  forth  an  arm,  and  creeps  from  pine  to  pine, 
And  loiters,  slowly  drawn.     On  either  hand 
The  lawns  and  meadow-ledges  midway  down 
Hang  rich  in  flowers,  and  far  below  them  roars 
The  long  brook  falling  through  the  clov'n  ravine 


234      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

In  cataract  after  cataract  to  the  sea. 

Behind  the  valley  topmost  Gargarus 

Stands  up  and  takes  the  morning;  but  in  front 

The  gorges,  opening  wide  apart,  reveal 

Troas  and  Ilion's  column'd  citadel, 

The  crown  of  Troas." 

"One  seem'd  all  dark  and  red — a  tract  of  sand. 

And  some  one  pacing  there  alone, 
Who  paced  forever  in  a  glimmering  land, 
Lit  with  a  low  large  moon. 

One  show'd  an  iron  coast  and  angry  waves. 

You  seem'd  to  hear  them  climb  and  fall 
And  roar  rock-thwarted  under  bellowing  caves, 

Beneath  the  windy  wall. 

And  one,  a  full-fed  river  winding  slow 

By  herds  upon  an  endless  plain, 
The  ragged  rims  of  thunder  brooding  low. 

With  shadow-streaks  of  rain. 

And  one,  the  reapers  at  their  sultry  toil. 

In  front  they  bound  the  sheaves.     Behind 
Were  realms  of  upland,  prodigal  in  oil, 

And  hoary  to  the  wind. 

And  one,  a  foreground  black  with  stones  and  slags, 
Beyond,  a  line  of  heights,  and  higher 

All  barr'd  with  long  white  cloud  the  scornful  crags, 
And  highest,  snow  and  fire. 

And  one,  an  English  home — gray  twilight  pour'd 

On  dewy  pastures,  dewy  trees, 
Softer  than  sleep — all  things  in  order  stored, 

A  haunt  of  ancient  Peace." 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  235 

Each  stanza  is  a  picture,  bound,  not  in  book 
nor  gold,  but  in  a  stanza. 

"Like  flame  from  ashes." 

"Sighing  weariedly,  as  one 
Who  sits  and  gazes  on  a  faded  fire, 
When  all  the  goodlier  guests  are  past  away." 

"As  the  crest  of  some  slow-arching  wave 
Heard  in  dead  night  along  that  table-shore 
Drops  flat,  and  after  the  great  waters  break 
Whitening  for  half  a  league,  and  thin  themselves 
Far  over  sands  marbled  with  moon  and  cloud, 
From  less  and  less  to  nothing." 

"Belted  his  body  with  her  white  embrace." 
"And  out  beyond  into  the  dream  to  come." 

"Thus,  as  a  hearth  lit  in  a  mountain  home, 
And  glancing  on  the  window,  when  the  gloom 
Of  twilight  deepens  round  it,  seems  a  flame 
That  rages  in  the  woodland  far  below." 

Looking  at  these  landscapes,  can  words  add 
weight  to  the  claim  for  Alfred  Tennyson  as  a 
painter  ? 

And  Tennyson  is  as  pure  as  the  air  of  mid- 
ocean.  His  moral  qualities  are  in  no  regard  in 
ferior  to  his  artistic  qualities,  although  from  cen 
turies  of  poets  we  might  have  been  schooled  to 
anticipate  that  so  sensitive  and  poetic  a  nature 
had  been  sensual,  concluding  a  lowered  stand 
ard  of  ethics,  theoretical  or  practical,  one  or 


236       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

both,  especially  considering  his  earliest  literary 
admiration  was  that  poetic  Don  Juan,  Lord  By 
ron,  whose  poems  were  a  transcript  of  his  morals, 
where  a  luxuriant  imagination  and  a  poetic  dic 
tion  we're  combined  in  a  high  degree,  and  so  the 
poet  qualified  to  be  a  bane  or  blessing  of  a  com 
manding  order,  he  choosing  so  to  use  his  ex 
traordinary  gifts  as  to  pollute  the  living  springs 
from  which  a  generation  of  men  and  women 
drank.  What  we  do  find  is,  a  Tennyson  as  re 
moved  from  a  Byron  in  moral  mood  and  life1  as 
southern  cross  from  northern  lights.  The  morals 
of  both  life  and  poems  are  as  limpid  as  the 
waters  of  pellucid  Tahoe;  and  purest  women  may 
read  from  "Claribel"  to  "Crossing  the  Bar,"  and 
be  only  purer  from  the  re'ading.  Henry  Van 
Dyke  has  written  on  "The  Bible  in  Tennyson," 
an  article,  after  his  habit,  discriminating  and  ap 
preciative,  in  the  course  of  which  he  shows  how 
some  of  the  delicious  verse's  of  the  laureate  are 
literal  extracts  from  the  Book  of  God,  so  native 
is  poetry  to  that  sublime  volume;  though  I  in 
cline  to  believe  the  larger  loan  of  the  Bible  to 
Termyson  is  the  purity  of  thought  evidenced  in 
the  poet's  writings,  and  more  particularly  in  the 
poet's  life.  Who  has  not  been  touched  by  the 
Bible  who  has  lived  in  these  later  centuries? 
Modern  life  may  no  more1  get  away  from  the 
Bible  than  our  planet  may  flee  from  its  own 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  237 

atmosphere.  We  can  never  estimate  the  moral 
potency  of  such  a  poet,  living  and  writing  for 
sixty  years,  though  we  may  fairly  account  this 
longevity  of  pure1  living  and  pure  thinking  and 
pure  writing  among  the  primary  blessings  of  our 
century.  That  two  such  pure  men  and  poets  as 
Tennyson  and  Browning  were  given  a  single  race 
in  a  single  century  is  abundant  cause  for  giving 
hearty  thanks  to  God.  They  have'  purified,  not 
our  day  only,  but  remote  days  coming,  till  days 
shall  set  to  rise  no  more,  and  have  given  the  lie 
to  the  poor  folly  of  supposing  highest  genius  and 
purest  morality  to  be  incompatibles ;  for  in  life 
and  poem,  and  in  the'  poem  of  life,  they  have 
swept  clouds  from  our  sky,  until  all  purity  stands 
revealed,  fair  as  the  morning  star  smiling  at 
Eastern  lattices.  In  Tennyson  is  no  slightest 
appeal  to  the  sensual.  He  hates  pruriency,  mak 
ing  protest  against  it  with  a  voice  like  the1 
clangor  of  angry  bells.  In  "Locksley  Hall  Sixty 
Years  After,"  he  speaks  wisely  and  justly,  in 
sarcasm  that  bites  as  acids  do : 

"Rip  your  brother's  vices  open,  strip  your  own  foul  pas 
sions  bare: 

Down  with  Reticence,  down  with  Reverence — forward, 
naked — let  them  stare. 

Feed  the  budding  rose  of  boyhood  with  the  drainage  of 
your  sewer; 

Send  the  drain  into  the  fountain  lest  the  stream  should 
issue  pure. 


238       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K 

Set  the  maiden  fancies  wallowing  in  the  trough  of  Zola- 
ism, 

Forward,  forward,  aye  and  backward,  downward,  too, 
in  the  abysm. 

Do  your  best  to  charm  the  worst,  to  lower  the  rising 
race  of  men." 

And  this  is  Tennyson  the  aged,  whose  moral 
eyes  were  as  the'  physical  eyes  of  Moses  on  Pis- 
gah,  "undimmed."  Bless  him  for  his  aged 
anger!  Happily,  to-day,  realism  has  lost  its 
charm.  We  have  had  enough  living  in  sewers, 
when  the  suburbs  were  near  with  their  breezy 
heights  and  quiet  homes.  Stench  needs  no 
apostle.  The  age  has  outgrown  these  hectic 
folk,  who,  in  the  name  of  nature',  lead  us  back 
to  Pompeii.  Gehenna  needs  not  to  be  assisted. 
Jean  Valjean,  bent  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  fled 
to  the  sewers  of  Paris,  his  appeal  to  the'se  foul 
subways  being  justified,  since  he  sought  them 
under  stress  for  the  preservation  of  a  life.  Does 
this  prove  that  men  should  take  prome'nades  in 
the  sewers  as  if  they  were  boulevards?  An 
author  is  not  called  on  to  tell  all  he  knows.  Let 
writers  of  fiction  assume  that  the  public  knows 
there  are'  foul  things,  and  needs  not  to  be  re 
minded  of  them,  and  let  the  romancist  avoid  them 
as  he  would  a  land  of  lepers. 

Those  who  companied  with  Tennyson  through 
his  beautiful  career  were  helpe'd  into  a  growing 


TENNYSON  THE  DREAMER  239 

love  of  purity.  He  had  no  panegyric  for  lust  and 
shame  and  sensuality,  but  made  us  feel  they  were 
shameful,  so  that  we  blushed  for  those  who  had 
not  the  modesty  to  blush  for  themselves.  We 
are  ashamed  for  Guinevere  and  Lancelot,  and  are 
proud  of  Enid  and  Elaine  and  Sir  Galahad  and 
King  Arthur;  and  in  them,  and  in  others,  have 
be'en  helped  to  see  the  heroic  beauty  of  simple 
virtue.  This  is  an  incalculable  gain  for  soul. 
When  we  have  learned  that  profligates,  whatever 
their  spasms  of  flashy  achievements,  are  poor 
company,  and  that  the  pure  are  eve'rmore  good 
company,  and  goodness  is  a  quest  worthier  than 
the  quest  for  the  golden  grail,  we  have  risen  to  no 
bility  of  soul  which  can  never  become  out  of  date. 

Noah  was  not  more'  clearly  a  preacher  of 
righteousness  in  his  day  than  Tennyson  in  his, 
of  whom  say,  as  highest  encomium  we  know  to 
pronounce,  "He  made  goodness  beautiful  to  our 
eyes  and  desirable  to  our  hearts;  and,  beyond 
this,  made  it  easier  for  us  to  be  good." 

Over  all  this  poet  wrote,  he  might  have  looked 
straight  in  God's  eye,  and  prayed,  as  King 

Arthur : 

"And  that  which  I  have  done 
May  he  within  himself  make  pure!" 

And  we  chant,  sending  our  muse  after  him, — 

"Nor  was  there  moaning  of  the  bar 
When  he  set  out  to  sea." 


240       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

To  him  saying,  "We  love  him  yet,  and  shall 
while  life'  endures,"  borrowing  Whittier's  God 
speed  to  the  dead  Bayard  Taylor : 

"Let  the  home-voices  greet  him  in  the  far, 
Strange  land  that  holds  him;  let  the  messages 
Of  love  pursue  him  o'er  the  chartless  seas 
And  unmapped  vastness  of  his  unknown  star! 
Love's  language,  heard  above  the  loud  discourse, 
Of  perishable  fame,  in  every  sphere 
Itself  interprets;  and  its  utterance  here, 
Somewhere  in  God's  unfolding  universe, 
Shall  reach  our  traveler,  softening  the  surprise 
Of  his  rapt  gaze  on  unfamiliar  skies!" 


VIII 

The  American  Historians 

THE  average  American  traveler  is  better 
acquainted  with  foreign  lands  than  with  his 
own  country.  Nor  is  he  unique  in  this  regard. 
I  have  known  persons  who  lived  a  lifetime 
within  a  dozen  squares  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
and  were  never  inside  of  that  historic  cathedral, 
as  I  have  known  persons  to  live  forty  years  not 
fifty  miles  distant  from  Niagara,  and  never  to 
have  heard  the  organ  speech  of  that  great  cata 
ract.  This  is  a  common  flaw  in  intellect.  We 
tend  to  underestimate  the  near,  and  exaggerate 
the  remote.  Another  application  of  the  same 
frailty  is  noticeable  in  literature.  Homegrown 
literature  is,  with  not  a  few,  depreciated.  Ac 
cording  to  their  logic,  good  things  can  not  come 
out  of  Nazareth,  and  imported  products  are  the 
only  viands  worth  a  Sybarite  palate.  In  mediaeval 
days  the  form  assumed  was  different,  while  the 
principle  remained  the  same.  Then  the  question 
of  value  turned  upon  whether  a  work  was  writ 
ten  in  the  learned  language ;  namely,  in  Latin. 
If  written  in  the  vernacular,  the  work  was  im- 
16  241 


242      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI/K 

mediately  set  down  as  vulgar.  One  of  Martin 
Luther's  valuable  services  was  that,  when  the 
reverse  was  prevalent,  he  honored  the  vernacu 
lar  of  his  country,  and  insisted  that  it  be  taught 
in  the  schools,  a  thing  accounted  an  educational 
heresy  in  his  time;  and  in  his  translation  of  the 
Bible  into  German,  he  created  German  literature. 

Americans  are  a  race  of  readers,  and  are  the 
Rome  to  which  all  literature  turns  face  and  feet. 
Besides  many  books  not  great,  all  great  books 
are  translated  into  English.  Everybody's  book 
comes  to  America.  We  are  a  cosmopolitan  popu 
lation  in  a  literary  way.  If  you  were  to  look 
at  the  book-counters  of  each  succeeding  month, 
you  would  see  how  all  the  writing  world  has  been 
writing  for  us.  From  such  conditions  of  supply, 
our  taste  becomes  cultivated.  We  feel  ourselves 
connoisseurs.  If  we  give  a  more  ready  reading 
to  a  foreign  than  to  a  domestic  book,  the  reason 
is  not  of  necessity  that  the  home  book  is  defi 
cient  in  interest  or  literary  finish,  but  may  be 
attributed  simply  to  an  undesigned  and  perhaps 
unperceived  predisposition  toward  the  imported 
and  the  remote. 

I  confess  to  a  love  for  what  is  American.  I 
love1  its  Government;  its  prevalent  and  genuine 
democracy;  its  chance  for  the  common  man  and 
woman  to  rise  into  success  and  fame  and  valuable 
service ;  its  inheritance,  unblemished  by  primo- 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  243 

geniture  or  entail;  its  universality  of  education 
to  a  degree  of  intelligence ;  its  history  and  ten 
dency;  and  I  love  its  literature,  though,  as 
appears  to  me,  our  historians  have  done  the 
highest  grade  of  work  of  any  of  our  litterateurs — 
in  saying  which  there  is  no  disparagement  of  other 
literary  workers,  but  simply  a  stated  belief  in  the 
pre-eminent  value  of  the  historian  in  American 
letters.  What  I  mean  is  this:  During  the  fifty 
years  last  passed  there  were  poets  and  novelists 
in  England  who,  with  all  deference  to  our  own 
writers,  were  equal  or  superior  to  the  poets  and 
novelists  of  America.  America  had  no  poets  who 
stood  the  peer  of  Browning  and  Tennyson;  and 
among  novelists,  our  Hawthorne  could  not  be 
said  to  surpass  a  Thackeray,  Dickens,  or  Eliot. 
But  say,  proudly,  beyond  the  sea  were  no  his 
torians  the  masters  of  Bancroft,  Prescott,  Motley, 
and  Parkman.  This  article  wishes  to  point  out 
the  quality  and  range  of  American  historians,  with 
an  expressed  hope  of  causing  research  in  this 
ample  and  fertile  field. 

Though  first  on  the  soil  of  the  Western  Hemi 
sphere,  the  Spaniard  has  made  no  acknowledged 
and  valuable  contribution  to  American  history. 
Nor,  indeed,  has  any  nation  of  this  hemisphere, 
save  our  own.  The  French  and  Spanish  Jesuit 
submitted  religious  monographs  touching  the 
early  days  of  occupancy  of  New  France  and 


244       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Mexico;  but  these  will  readily  be  seen  to  be 
rather  chronicles  than  histories.  And  the  his 
torian,  native  to  the  United  States,  is  he  in  whose 
hands  have  be'en  the  historical  studies  of  our 
Western  World.  La  Salle,  Hennepin,  Marquette, 
and  Las  Casas  have  written  faulty  but  valuable 
memoirs ;  but  they  do  not  reach  the  dignity  and 
value  of  histories,  being  what  one  might  name 
crude  ore  rather  than  refined  gold. 

Another  thing  worthy  a  glad  emphasis  is,  that 
America  is  her  own  historian.  The  New  World 
has  begotten  the  writers  of  its  own  story.  How 
fully  this  is  true  will  not  be  appreciated  until  a 
detailed  and  instantaneous  survey  is  taken. 
Look  down  on  this  plain  of  history  as  one  does 
on  Tuscany  from  an  Alp.  Thus,  and  thus  only, 
can  we  value  our  possession.  In  this  estimate, 
mention  is  made  of  the  greater  historians,  not 
because  others  are  not  worthy  of  notice,  but  be 
cause  the  scope  of  this  essay  does  not  allow,  inas 
much  as  reference  is  here  had  to  the  specific 
gravity  of  the  historian  and  the  epoch  of  our  his 
tory  he  has  exploited. 

Washington  Irving,  essayist,  biographer,  hu 
morist,  was,  before  all,  a  historian  in  temper,  and 
was  drawn  as  by  some  subtle  and  unseen  attrac 
tion  to  study  that  nation  to  which  America 
owed  its  discovery.  Irving  is  an  evident  Ameri 
can.  He  loved  the'  land  through  whose  palisades 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  245 

the  stately  Hudson  flowed.  What  touched  Amer 
ica  touched  Irving,  and  who  had  loved  or  helped 
America  had  won  Irving's  heart  as  a  trophy. 
And  such  evident  patriotism  is  commendable  in 
citizen  and  writer.  We  love  not  Caesar  less, 
but  Rome  the  more,  when  we  believe  in  America 
before  all  nations  of  history.  I  love  the  patriot 
above  the  cosmopolitan,  because  in  him  is  an 
honest  look,  a  homeliness  that  touches  the  heart 
like  the  sight  of  a  pasture-field,  with  its  broken 
bars,  where  our  childhood  ran  with  happy  feet. 
Carlyle  was  against  things  because  they  were 
English;  so  was  Matthew  Arnold.  These  men 
were  self-expatriated  in  spirit.  I  like  not  the 
attitude.  Give  us  men  who  love  native  land  be 
yond  all  other  lands,  and  who,  removed  there 
from,  turn  homesick  eyes  toward  its  invisible 
boundaries.  Irving,  admirable  in  many  ways, 
was  in  no  way  more'  to  be  admired  than  in  his 
predilection  for  his  country  as  a  theme  for  his 
historian's  muse.  To  him  pay  tribute,  because 
he  is  historian  of  the  discovery  of  our  brave 
Western  Hemisphere.  Irving  has  told  the  story 
of  that  great  admiral  of  the'  ocean,  Christopher 
Columbus.  This  memoir  may  not  be  exact. 
Irving  may  have  idealized  this  pathfinder  of  the 
ocean ;  though  if  he  has,  he  has  observed  the  pro 
prieties,  literary  and  imaginative,  as  many  suc 
cessors  have  not.  Some  writers  are  seemingly 


246       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER 

bent  on  making  every  great  soul  commonplace, 
thinking  that  if  they  fail  to  belittle  a  distinguished 
benefactor  of  the  race,  if  they  have  not  played  the 
Vandal  with  a  swagger  and  conceit  like  Jack 
Falstaff,  they  have  ignominiously  failed;  when 
the  plain  truth  is,  that  if  they  succeeded  in  tak 
ing  the  glamour  for  those  heroes  of  whom  they 
write,  they  have  hurt  mankind  so  far,  and  have 
impoverished  imagination  and  endeavor  by  their 
invidious  task.  We  need  not  suppose  Christopher 
Columbus  and  Washington  saints,  seeing  there 
is  no  inclination  to  canonize  them;  but  we  need 
not  hold  their  follies  up  to  wake  the  guffaw  of 
a  crowd.  Such  laughter  is  dearly  bought.  One 
thing  I  hold  so  true  no  reasoning  can  damage 
it;  namely,  that  a  man  like  Columbus  had  nobler 
moods  on  which  he  voyaged  as  his  caravel  through 
the  blue  seas.  Columbus  was  no  swineherd,  but 
a  dreamer,  whose  dreams  enlarged  the  world  by 
half,  and  gave  a  new  civilization  room  and  tri 
umph.  He  was  of  his  age,  and  his  morality  was 
not  unimpe'achable ;  but  in  him  were  still  great 
moralities  and  humanities.  He  had  mountain- 
tops  in  his  spirits,  and  on  these  peaks  he  stood. 
What  puerile  work  it  is  to  attempt  robbing  Co 
lumbus  of  his  discoverer's  glory  by  attempting 
to  show  how  vikings  discovered  this  continent! 
Such  historians  might  fight  a  less  bloody  battle 
still  by  showing  that  the  aborigines  discovered 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  247 

this  continent  before  the  Norsemen  did!  What 
boots  such  folly?  What  gold  of  benefit  comes 
of  such  quests?  Certain  we  are  that  when  Co 
lumbus  set  sail  for  a  New  World,  no  one  believed 
the  earth  was  round  as  he  did,  and  no  one  knew 
the  Norsemen  had  piloted  across  seas  and  found 
land;  and  Europe  was  ignorant  of  any  shore 
westward,  and  Columbus,  in  his  ignorance,  risked 
all  and  vanquished  all. 

"Dragging  up  drowned  honor  by  the  locks," 

as  says  our  Shakespeare.  Columbus  is  America's 
benefactor.  He  showed  the  Puritans  a  New 
World,  toward  whose  shores  to  sail,  and  behind 
whose  harbor-bar  to  cast  anchor.  Nothing  can 
invalidate  these  claims.  Honor  him  who  honors 
us  in  giving  us  a  re'ndezvous  for  liberty  and 
civilization.  This  mood  of  history  Washington 
Irving  caught,  and  because  he  did,  I  honor  him. 
He  was  sagacious.  He  did  not  traduce  a  hero, 
but  enthroned  him.  In  short,  Irving  behaved 
toward  Christopher  Columbus  as  a  historian  and 
a  gentleman,  and  set  Americans  a  pattern  in  history- 
writing  in  that  they  should  be  the'  historiograph 
ers  of  their  own  world.  This  Nestor's  lessons 
were  heard  and  heeded.  If  you  care  to  read 
Irving's  various  historical  writings,  the  logic  of 
these  writings  will  appear.  America  was  his  home 
and  love.  He  thought  to  write  the  story  of  how 


248       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

a  brave  man  gave  a  world  this  huge  room 
it  knew  not  of.  Loyalty  made  him  historian. 
His  researches  gave  him  familiarity  with  Spanish 
archives.  The  movement  of  the  era  touched  him ; 
for  Irving  was  susceptible  to  the  finer  moods  of 
literature,  as  any  who  reads  the  "Sketch-book" 
knows;  and  once  having  set  foot  on  Spanish  his 
torical  terra  firma,  he  began  a  journey  as  a  traveler 
might.  America  led  Irving  to  Columbus,  Co 
lumbus  led  him  to  Spain,  Spain  led  him  to 
Mohammedism,  and  Mohammedism  led  him  to 
Mohammed.  How  natural  his  literary  travels ! 
Consider  the  consecutiveness  of  his  historical  at 
tempts  :  "Life  of  Columbus,"  "Spanish  Voyages," 
"Conquest  of  Grenada,"  "Conquest  of  Spain," 
"Moorish  Chronicles,"  and  "Life  of  Mohammed." 
The  influence  of  this  historical  research,  too,  you 
shall  find  in  reading  his  romances:  "Wolfert's 
Roost,"  "Legends  of  the  Conquest  of  Spain," 
"Bracebridge  Hall,"  and  "Alhambra." 

Patriotism  taught  Irving's  Clio  to .  find  her 
voice.  Nor  must  we  forget,  in  any  estimate  of 
Irving's  service,  his  biography  of  Washington. 
This  is  his  tribute  to  the  battle-days  of  his  beloved 
America. 

In  strict  affinity  with  Irving  in  the  time  of  his 
history  is  Prescott.  This  man  is  a  distinguished 
historian.  To  history  he  devoted  his  life,  and  to 
such  effect  that  he  is  to  be  ranked  among  the 


AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  249 

masters  of  history  among  the  ages.  America  at 
tracted  him  as  it  had  attracted  Irving.  The  era 
of  the  discovery  enticed  him  as  the  voyage  had 
enticed  Columbus.  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella"  are 
the  dominant  voices  on  his  stage.  Irving  made 
them  subordinate,  and  made  Columbus  the  chief 
player,  which  mode  Prescott  reverses.  The 
union  of  Castile  and  Aragon,  and  the  subsequent 
wars  against  the  Moriscoes,  which  virtually  put 
the  knife  in  their  heart  and  concluded  that  tri 
umph  which  had  been  begun  by  Charles  Martel 
at  Tours,  is  an  attractive  portion  of  history.  In 
Prescott,  as  in  Motley,  is  a  wealth  of  research 
which  fairly  bewilde'rs.  Nothing  is  extempora 
neous.  Archives  are  ransacked.  Moldy  corre 
spondence  is  made  to  tell  its  belated  story.  Cer 
tainly  Prescott  is  abundant  in  information.  I  do 
not  recall,  save  in  Gibbon's,  a  series  of  histories 
where  so  much  new  knowledge  is  retailed  as  in 
Prescott.  In  seeming  looseness  of  phrase,  I  have 
used  the  term  "new  knowledge,"  but  these 
words  are  happily  descriptive  of  "Conquest  of 
Mexico"  and  "Conquest  of  Peru,"  because  the 
fields  were  practically  untrodden  to  the  ordinary 
reader.  Everything  is  new,  like  a  college  to  the 
freshman.  We  see  a  New  World  in  more  senses 
than  one.  The  freshness  of  the  facts  is  exhilarat 
ing.  We  march  with  Cortes ;  we  conquer  with 
Pizarro ;  we  inspect  Montezuma's  palace ;  we  be- 


250       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K. 

come  interested  in  the  industrial  system  of  the  In- 
cas,  a  system  which  should  have  given  Henry 
George  and  Edward  Bellamy  a  delight  without 
alloy;  we  perceive  the  incredible  valor  and  perse 
verance  and  e'ndurance  of  Cortes ;  we  front 
"new  faces,  other  minds;"  we  discover  the 
Amazon  through  perils  and  hardships  so  multi 
tudinous  and  so  severe  as  to  tempt  us  to  think  these 
narrations  a  myth;  we  see  rapacity  insatiable1  as 
death,  a  bloody  idol-worship  pitiless  and  terrible; 
we  read  Prescott's  history  with  growing  avidity 
and  increasing  information ;  read  Prescott,  and 
become  wiser  concerning  the  aborigines  of  the1 
Americas  and  the  possibilities  of  'human  forti 
tude  and  prowess.  A  study  of  the  Spanish  era 
of  discovery  and  conquest  naturally  led  to  a  study 
of  Charles  V,  grandson  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa 
bella,  and  Pre'scott  has  accordingly  brought  up 
to  date  "Robertson's  Life  of  Charles  V,"  append 
ing  a  biography  of  Charles  V  subsequent  to  his 
abdication ;  and  as  a  certificate  of  indefatigable  in 
dustry  in  historical  research  is  an  incomplete  but 
exhaustive  me'moir,  entitled,  "The  Life  of 
Philip  II."  This  work  is  written  with  such  fair 
ness  of  spirit  and  such  wealth  of  information  and 
investigation,  such  vivid  presentation  of  a^  reign 
which  had  more  of  the  movement  of  the  universal 
dominion  than  any  since  the  Roman  days,  and 
thus  written  so  as  to  make  us  rebellious  in  spirit 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  251 

in  finding  the  work  incomplete.  Death  came  too 
soon  to  give  our  indefatigable  author  time  to  com 
plete  his  voluminous  history.  Read  Prescott  as 
a  matter  of  American  pride,  and  because1  he  has 
dealt  more  capably  with  the  era  with  which  he 
treats  than  any  other  historian. 

The  United  States  has  supplied  her  own  his 
torians,  not  needing  to  go  abroad  for  eithe'r  his 
tory  or  historian.  George  Bancroft,  with  a  private 
library  larger  by  almost  half  than  the  ten  thou 
sand-volume  library  Edward  Gibbon  used  in  writ 
ing  "The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire;"  George  Bancroft,  whose  literary  life 
was  dedicated  to  one  task,  and  that  the  writing 
the  life  of  his  country  prior  to  the  Constitution; 
George  Bancroft,  publicist  as  well  as  student  of 
history,  and  who  in  such  relation  represented  his 
Government  with  distinction  at  the  courts  of 
Germany  and  England, — George  Bancroft  has 
written  a  history  of  the  United  States  which  will 
no  more  become  archaic  than  Macaulay  or  Grote. 
While  one'  may  now  and  then  hear  from  the  lips 
of  the  so-called  "younger  school  of  American 
historians"  a  criticism  of  George  Bancroft,  their 
carping  is  ungracious  and  gratuitous.  Theirs  has 
not  been  the  art  to  equal  him,  nor  will  be.  A 
literary  life  devoted  to  the  mastery  of  one  era 
of  a  nation's  'history  is  a  worthy  sight,  good 
for  the  eyes,  and  arguing  sanity  of  method  and 


252      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

profundity  of  investigation.  Whoever  has  read 
Bancroft  can  testify  to  his  readableness,  to  his 
comprehe'nsive  knowledge,  to  his  philosophical 
grasp,  to  his  ability  to  make  dead  deeds  vividly 
visible,  and  to  his  gift  of  interesting  the  reader 
in  events  and  their  philosophy.  He  has  written 
a  great  history  of  the  Unite'd  States  before  the 
Constitution,  so  that  no  author  has  felt  called  on 
or  equipped  to  reduplicate  his  task  in  the  same 
detail  and  manner. 

Where  George  Bancroft  left  off,  Schouler  has 
begun.  More  dramatic  than  Bancroft,  and  in 
consequence  more  compelling  in  interest,  the  his 
tory  marches  at  a  double-quick,  like  a  charging 
regiment.  His  pictures  of  John  Quincy  Adams, 
Calhoun,  Clay,  Webster,  Sumner,  Douglas,  Lin 
coln,  and  a  host  beside1,  vitalize  those  men.  We 
live  with  that  giant  brood.  I  have  found  Schouler 
invigoratingly  helpful.  He  affords  knowledge  and 
inspiration ;  a  man  is  behind  his  pages ;  we  feel 
him  and  acknowledge  him. 

One  change  has  come  over  the  spirit  of  his 
tory  to  which  all  must  bear  joyful  witness,  and 
that  is  the  passing  of  the  king  and  the  advent 
of  the  people.  The  world  has  grown  more  demo 
cratic  than  it  knows.  The  people  engage  atten 
tion  now.  We  do  not  know  so  much  of  Queen 
Victoria;  but  of  the  conquering,  splendid  race 
whose  hereditary  sovereign  she  is,  we  know  much, 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  253 

very  much.  The  case  used  to  be  wholly  other 
wise,  the  sovereign  monopolizing  attention;  but 
that  day  is  passed.  So  let  it  be.  This  change 
is  one  needed,  and  waited  for  long,  and  longed  for 
eagerly.  John  Richard  Green  saw  the  demoneti 
zation  of  kings  and  a  remonetization  of  the  people, 
and  so  wrote  a  revolutionary  history,  calling  it 
"A  History  of  the  English  People,"  in  which  he 
subordinated  the  intrigues  of  courts  and  the  selfish 
wars  of  potentates  to  the  quiet  growth  of  national 
spirit  and  the  characteristics  of  domestic  life,  and 
the  development  and  solidification  of  social  in 
stincts  into  social  customs,  and  the  framing  of 
a  literature,  the  reformation  of  religion,  and  the 
direction  of  the  thought  of  the  many.  The'se  con 
stituted,  as  he  believed,  and  as  we  believe,  the 
genuine  biography  of  a  people ;  and  McMaster  has 
done  for  the  United  States  what  Green  has  done 
for  England.  His  "History  of  the  People  of  the 
United  States"  is  so  packed  with  knowledge;  so 
accurate  in  laying  hold  of  those  things  which  we 
did  not  know,  but  wanted  to  know;  so  free  in 
giving  us  the  inside  life  of  our  country,  as  to 
make1  us  wonder  what  we  did  before  our  historian 
of  the  people  came  to  lend  us  knowledge.  My 
conviction  is,  that  a  careful  reading  of  McMaster 
will  suffice  to  cure  most  of  our  dyspeptic  feelings 
about  national  discontent  in  our  time,  and  dispel 
the  fabulous  notion  of  an  older  time  in  America, 


254       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

when  everybody  was  happy  and  everybody  was 
contented.  No  such  day  ever  existed.  The  king 
dom  of  contentment  is  within  us,  like  the  king 
dom  of  God.  McMaster  tells  us  the  unvarnished 
tale  of  inflation  and  political  and  financial  asinin- 
ity  in  the  former  days,  so  that  when  he  is  done 
We  are  less  liable  to  that  frailty  of  the  ignorant 
soul;  namely,  the  moaning,  "The  former  days 
we're  better  than  these." 

Thus  far,  those  authors  have  been  named  who 
have  chronicled  the  discovery  of  America,  the 
conquering  of  the  Southern  Hemisphere  or  the 
Eastern  territory  of  that  era  known  as  the  United 
States.  This  was  done  to  keep  a  natural  move 
ment  and  logical  progress.  At  this  point,  how 
ever,  must  be  mentioned  those  voluminous  his 
tories  of  the  States  and  Territories  of  the  Pacific 
Coast,  written  by  H.  H.  Bancroft.  They  are 
treasure-houses  of  material  for  the  future  histo 
rian.  Hubert  Bancroft  has  become  the  historian 
of  the  Spanish  dominion  in  the  United  States,  and 
dese'rves  favorable  thought  for  his  wealth  of  re 
search  into  archives  which  might  have  been  lost, 
or  at  least  less  ample  with  the  advance  of  time. 
Topography,  geography,  archaeology,  State  papers, 
• — all  have  contributed  their  quota  to  him,  and 
he  has,  after  the  generous  manner  of  the  scholar, 
contributed  to  us. 

Francis  Parkman  is  a  distinguished  master  in 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  255 

the  art  of  history.  His  theme  is  the  "American 
Indian"  and  the  "French  Occupancy  of  America," 
and  he  has  told  a  thrilling  story.  He  knows  the 
Indian  as  no  one  of  our  historians  has  known 
him,  and  has  told  of  his  noble  traits,  and  his 
ruthless  forays,  and  his  sanguine  cruelty.  His 
utter  lack  of  thrift;  his  feast-and-famine  life;  his 
stealth,  stolidity,  duplicity,  and  ferocity, — all  are 
rehearsed.  To  read  his  record  of  the  Indian  is 
to  have  much  of  the  glamour  thrown  around  him 
by  James  Fenimore  Cooper  stripped  from  him 
incontinently  and  forever.  The  Indian  was  self- 
exterminative.  He  was  the  assassin  of  his  race, 
and  civilization  was  impossible  so  long  as  the 
American  Indian  was  dominant;  so  that  those 
who  shed  tears  over  the  white  man's  conquest  of 
the  Indian  may  not  well  have  weighed  their  cause. 
The  Indian  was  not  the  quiet,  inoffensive  inno 
cent  presented  in  Cuba  at  its  discovery.  There 
were  Indians  and  Indians.  Some  of  the'm  were 
friendly,  peaceful,  and  kindly;  but  that  this  was 
the  character  of  the  American  Indian  as  a  whole 
is  totally  incorrect.  Parkman  shows  that  the 
Indian  was,  throughout  North  America,  in  his 
native  strength  furious  in  his  ferocity,  relentless 
as  death,  cruel  beyond  imagination,  and  occupied 
a  territory  he  neither  cultivated  nor  attempted  to. 
The  Indians  were  military  vagabonds,  whose  con 
tinued  control  had  left  America  an  unpeopled 


256       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

wilderness  to  this  day.  Huntsmen  and  warriors 
they  were;  citizens  and  cultivators  and  civilizers 
they  were  not,  and  never  would  have  been. 
Parkman  tells  the  truth  as  history  found  them,  and 
those  truths  are  well  worth  our  reading,  because 
in  their  perusal  we  pass  from  sentimentality  to 
reason,  and  see  how  this  America  of  our  day, 
rich,  cultivated,  civilized,  and  possessed  of  the 
largest  amount  of  personal  liberty  ever  vouch 
safed  to  a  citizen,  is  a  noble  exchange  for  the' 
thoughtlessness,  improvidence,  and  barbarity 
which  were  original  holders  of  this  realm.  Speak 
ing  for  myself,  no  author  ever  helped  me  to 
knowledge  of  the  character  of  the  aborigines  of 
North  America  as  Francis  Parkman  has  done. 
I  see  that  wild  past,  and  feel  it.  And  he  has 
written  the  thrilling  story  of  the  French  attempt 
to  build  an  empire;  and  the  attempt  was  coura 
geous  to  the  verge  of  wonder.  There  was  in  the 
Frenchman  a  careless  ease  and  courage  and 
sprightliness  of  temper,  which  lifted  him  above 
danger,  as  a  boat  is  lifted  on  a  billow's  shoulders. 
Those  perils  were  his  drink ;  with  a  laugh  and  a 
jest  he  met  his  appointment  with  death  as  he 
would  have  met  tryst  with  a  woman.  In  "The 
Romance  of  American  Geography,"  I  have  de 
scribed  the  genius  of  the  French  voyager,  for 
which  I  have  an  unbounded  admiration,  and  in 
which  I  take  an  intemperate  delight.  He  is  the 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  257 

discoverer  at  his  best,  but  the  colonizer  at  his 
worst.  The  Jesuits  had  a  brave  chapter  in  the 
French  occupancy.  Their  labors  and  sufferings 
and  voyagings,  their  fealty  to  what  they  thought 
to  be  the  cause  of  God,  makes  us  proud  of 
them,  as  if  they  were  our  own  fellow-citizens. 
The  settlement  of  Montreal  and  Quebec  and  con 
tiguous  territory,  the  religious  fe'rvor  that  mixed 
with  the  military  spirit  as  waters  of  two  streams 
mingle  in  a  mountain-meadow, — read  Parkman, 
and  discover  the  dramatic  instincts  of  these  epi 
sodes  which  can  be  rehearsed  no  more  upon  our 
continent.  Their  day  is  past;  but  it  was  a  great 
and  stirring  day.  Gilbert  Parker's  "The  Seats  of 
the  Mighty"  is  a  chapter  torn  from  Parkman's 
"French  Regime  in  Canada."  All  his  facts  and  the 
romance  are  accurate,  and  are  taken  from  Park 
man's  narrative,  which  misses  nothing,  but  tells 
all.  Parker's  "Pierre  and  'his  People,"  and  "An 
Adventure  of  the  North."  are  tales  of  adven 
ture,  dewy  with  the'  freshness  of  a  frontier  world, 
and  are  in  brief  a  section  of  the  old  French  voy 
agers'  days.  Parkman's  "Wolfe  and  Montcalm" 
is  a  picture,  painted  in  smoke  and  blood,  where 
heroism  of  Englishmen  and  Frenchmen  mix 
themselves  in  an  inextricable  confusion.  Pray  you 
read  Parkman,  and  be  transported  to  a  world 
where  great  deeds  were  done  by  men  whose  lives 
were  as  contradictory  as  an  April  day;  but  "their 
17 


258       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOL,K 

works  do  follow  them"  for  all  that,  and  do  glorify 
them.  Be  glad  for  Francis  Parkman,  historian. 

Many  historians  there  are.  John  Fiske  has 
written  chapters  on  the  discovery  and  coloniza 
tion  days ;  Rhodes  has  written  on  our  Constitu 
tional  history;  Winsor  has  written  on  our  an 
tiquities;  Baird  has  written  an  exhaustive  and 
competent  history  of  the  Huguenots,  a  series 
one  will  do  more  than  well  to  read.  Many  schol 
ars  have  writte'n  comparatively  brief  memoirs  of 
the  United  States.  Localities  and  States  and 
single  villages  have  had  their  historians ;  but  the 
commanding  figures  whose  faces  fill  the  canvas, 
so  to  say, — of  them  this  appreciation  is  written, 
to  point  youth  to  an  Oregon  of  delight,  where 
their  leisure  may  stray  with  abundant  profit  and 
increasing  pleasure,  and,  as  I  hope,  with  growing 
pride  in  American  literature,  so  that  they  may 
make  mental  boast  of  America's  sons,  who  have 
been  stanch  to  enjoy  and  study  the  history  of 
their  own  native  land. 

My  final  word  is  of  that  brilliant,  irascible,  and 
impressible  American,  John  Lothrop  Motley,  his 
torian  of  the  Dutch  Republic ;  and  fitting  it  is  that 
a  native  of  the  first  great  stable  Republic  was 
drawn  to  study  the  European  Republic  which 
rose  at  the  touch  of  William  the  Silent's  genius, 
and  sank  back  into  lethargy  of  kingship  when  the 
blood  of  the  tragic  and  heroic  inauguration  was 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  259 

all  spilt.  The  contact  of  the  United  Netherlands 
with  American  history  and  future  is  known  to  all. 
From  the  Netherlands  the  Puritans  set  sail  to 
found  what  proved  to  be  a  colony  and  Republic. 
The  extent  to  which  the  Netherlands  exercised 
an  influence  in  shaping  the  future  of  the  American 
Commonwealth  has  not  been  determined,  and  can 
not  be,  though  Douglas  Campbell  has  maintained 
that  to  the  Dutch,  and  not  to  the  English  Puritan, 
nor  yet  to  the  Magna  Charta,  does  the  American 
Republic  owe  its  chief  debt.  The  theme  is  pro 
ductive  and  stimulative  and  worthy,  though  the 
facts  are  indeterminate.  America  is  attached  to 
the  Dutch  Republic  as  a  bold  attempt  whose  fail 
ure  was  nobler  than  many  successes.  The  Puritan 
exodus  from  Holland,  when  Pastor  John  Robin 
son  prayed,  preached,  and  prophesied,  is  one  of 
the  most  thrilling  events  recorded  of  the  seven 
teenth  century — a  century  crowded  with  doings 
that  thrill  the  flesh  like  a  bugle-call. 

Motley's  histories  are  "The  Rise  of  the  Dutch 
Republic,"  "The  United  Netherlands,"  and  "John 
of  Barneveld,"  a  series  which,  for  brilliancy  of 
characterization  of  men  and  times  and  events,  and 
interest  stimulated  and  held,  may  rank,  without 
hyperbole,  with  the  writings  of  Lord  Macaulay. 
Both  are  always  special  pleaders,  as  I  am  of  opin 
ion  history  ought  probably  to  be,  seeing  that  it 
is  human  nature,  and  will,  in  all  but  solitary  in- 


260       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

stances,  be  the  case  whether  or  no;  both  are  fas 
cinating  as  a  romancist;  both  are  colorists,  gor 
geous  as  Rembrandt;  both  glorify  and  make  you 
admire  and  love  their  heroes,  whether  you  are 
so  minded  or  not;  both  have  made  the  epoch  of 
which  they  wrote  vivid  as  the  landscape  upon 
which  the  sunset  pours  its  crimson  dyes.  Motley's 
hero  was  William  the  Silent,  Prince'  of  Orange ; 
and  Macaulay's  hero  was  William  III,  King  of 
England,  Prince  of  Orange.  Motley  will  bear  be 
ing  ranked  as  a  great  historian.  He  hates  Philip 
II,  as  I  suppose  good  folks  ought  who  despise 
egotism,  intolerance,  vindictiveness,  and  horrible 
cruelty.  He  lauds  William  the  Silent  as  soldier 
and  statesman,  Prince  Maurice  as  a  soldier,  and 
John  of  Barneveld  as  statesman.  Motley  marches 
across  old  battle-fields  like'  a  soldier  clad  in  steel. 
He  gives  portraits  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  of  Leices 
ter,  of  Granvelle,  of  Prince  Maurice,  of  John  of 
Barneveld,  of  Henry  of  Navarre,  of  Philip  II,  of 
Count  Egmont,  of  Charles  V,  of  Don  John  of 
Austria,  of  Hugo  Grotius,  and  of  William  the 
Silent,  which  are  as  noble  as  the  portraits  painted 
by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  I  confess  myself  a  heavy 
debtor  to  Motley.  He  has  taught  me'  so  much; 
has  familiarized  me  with  the  great  world-figure, 
William  the  Silent,  so  that  I  feel  at  home  with 
him  and  his  struggle,  and  participate  with  him  in 
them.  He  has  drawn  so  cle'arly  the  figures  of 


THE  AMERICAN  HISTORIANS  261 

Romanist,  Arminian,  and  Calvinist,  as  to  make 
them  fairly  glow  upon  his  pages.  Not  as  minister 
to  St.  James,  under  President  Grant,  was  Motley 
at  his  best;  but  rifling  the  archives  of  Holland 
and  Spain  with  an  industry  which  knew  no 
bounds,  and  rehearsing  the  dry-as-dust  discover 
ies  in  histories  that  glow  like  a  furnace.  Here  is 
the  field  in  which  he  is  all  but  unconquerable. 
Long  live  the  American  historians ! 


IX 

King  Arthur 

PERHAPS  no  reader  of  the'  world's  literature 
would  deny  that  letters  and  life  had  been  in 
definitely  enriched  by  Alfred  Tennyson. 

How  ideas  affect  life  when  once  they  have  be 
come  participants  therein  is  the  bar  at  which  all 
ideas  must  stand  for  judgment.  Carbonic-acid  gas 
enters  the  lungs,  fills  them,  and  blows  out  the 
lamp  of  life.  Common  air  enters  the'  lungs,  crim 
sons  the  blood,  exhilarates  the  spirit,  gives  elas 
ticity  to  step  and  thought  and  pulse;  is  health, 
and  pours  oil  into  the  lamp  of  life  whereby  the' 
flame  burns  higher,  like  watch-fires  on  evening 
hills.  One  air  brought  death;  one  air  brought 
more  abundant  life.  What  do  ideas  effect,  and 
how  do  they  affect  him  who  entertains  them  is 
the  final  question  and  the  final  test.  Now,  our 
earth  is  always  trying  to  grow  men.  Not  har 
vests  nor  flowers  nor  forests,  but  man,  is  what 
the'  earth  is  proudest  of.  On  transparent  June 
days,  standing  upon  the  cliffs  of  the  Isle  of  Man, 
I  have  seen  the  golden  wheatfields  on  the  hills 
of  Wales ;  but  heaven,  looking  earth's  way,  is  ob- 
262 


KING  ARTHUR  263 

livious  to  our  tossing  plumes  of  corn  or  tawny 
billows  of  the  fields  of  wheat.  Heaven's  con 
cern  is  in  our  crop  of  manhood;  and  ships  that 
ply  between  the  shores  of  earth  and  shores  of 
heaven  are  never  laden  with  gold  or  silver  ingots, 
as  Spanish  galleons  were,  nor  with  glancing  silks 
nor  burning  gems,  but  are  forever  freighted  with 
elect  spirits.  Men  and  women  are  the  commodity 
earth  grows  that  heaven  wants. 

What  helps  the'  growth  of  man  is  good;  what 
hurts  the  growth  of  man  is  bad.  When  one  has 
become  a  shadow,  lost  to  human  eyes,  test  him 
with  this  acid.  Did  he  do  good?  If  he  did  evil, 
let  his  name  perish;  if  he  did  good,  let  his  name 
blaze  in  the1  galaxy  among  the  inextinguishable 
stars.  If  he  has  made  the  growth  of  manhood 
easier  and  its  method  more  apparent;  if  he  has 
opened  eyes  to  see  the  best,  and  spurred  men  to 
attempt  the  best  they  saw ;  if  he  has  enamored 
them  of  virtue  as  aforetime1  they  were  enamored 
of  vice, — trust  me,  that  man  was  good.  He  will 
endure,  and  be  passed  from  age  to  age,  like  rare 
traditions  through  centuries,  till  time  shall  die. 
Submit  Alfred  Tennyson  to  this  test.  Is  virtue 
more  apparent,  more  lovely,  and  of  more  luxu 
riant  growth,  like  tropic  forests,  because  of  him? 
But  one  answer  is  possible,  and  that  answer  is, 
"King  Arthur."  To  our  moral  riches,  Victor 
Hugo  added  "Jean  Valjean;"  Dickens,  "Sidney 


264       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

Carton ;"  Thackeray,  "Colonel  Newcome ;"  Brown 
ing,  "Caponsacchi ;"  Tennyson,  "King  Arthur," 
who  stands  and  will  stand  as  Tennyson's  vision 
of  manhood  at  its  prime. 

The  theme  of  this  paper,  then,  is  "King 
Arthur,"  being  a  philosophy  of  manhood  as  out 
lined  by  Alfred  Tennyson;  and  the  purpose  of 
this  essay  is  to  bring  into  vital  relation  to  King 
Arthur  the  totality  of  argument  for  manhood 
which  Tennyson  has  constructed  in  his  cycle  of 
poems,  thus  taking  into  our  field  of  vision,  not 
simply  "The  Idyls  of  the  King,"  adequate  as  they 
may  be,  but,  in  addition,  "Enoch  Arden,"  "Ulys 
ses,"  "The'  Vision  of  Sin,"  "The  Palace  of  Art," 
"Maud,"  "Columbus,"  "Locksley  Hall,"  "The 
Lotos-Eaters,"  and  "In  Memoriam,"  and  all  poems 
which,  by  negation  or  affirmation,  may  suggest 
or  enforce  a  thought  regarding  the  furnishing  of 
the  soul. 

In  those  idyls  clustering  about  King  Arthur, 
Tennyson  has  patently  purposed  painting  the' 
figure  of  a  perfect  man.  How  well  he  has  exe 
cuted  his  design  depends  on  himself  much,  on 
the  beholder  much.  Onlookers  differ  in  opinion. 
Painters  have  their  clientage.  Poets  are  not 
omniscient;  neither  are  we,  a  thing  we  are  prone 
to  forget.  For  myself,  I  confess  not  to  see  with 
those  who  deride  the  king,  nor  yet  with  those 
who  think  him  statuesque,  as  if  shaped,  not  out 


KING  ARTHUR  265 

of  flesh,  but  out  of  marble.  He  is  not  incredible, 
nor  is  he  a  shadow,  stalking  gaunt  and  battle-clad 
across  the  crags  that  fringe  the'  Cornish  sea.  Not 
a  few  among  us  approximate  perfection  in  char 
acter  as  blameless  as  Arthur's.  I  myself  profess 
to  have  seen  a  King  Arthur,  and  to  have  held 
high  converse  with  him  through  many  years. 
Whiteness  of  life  is  not  an  episode  foreign  to 
biography.  There  are  many  lives  running  white 
toward  heaven  as  I  have  seen  a  path  across  the1 
moonlit  sea.  Not  to  be  credulous  is  well;  not  to 
be  incredulous  is  better,  when  heavenly  visions 
and  heavenly  incarnations  are1  the  theme.  This  is 
affirmed,  that  King  Arthur  is  not  more  unreal  than 
others  Tennyson  delineates.  His  art  lacks  the 
power  to  flood  his  people's  veins  with  blood  to 
plethora,  with  such  bounding  vitality  as  marks 
Shakespeare's  cre'ations.  They  lack,  sometimes, 
color  on  the  cheek  and  lip  and  sunlight  in  the 
eyes.  His  characters  are  as  if  seen  in  mist.  Our 
failing  is,  we  give  credence  to  fle'shly  instinct  and 
lust  and  failure  in  ideal  more  readily  than  to 
wise  manliness  and  stalwart  and  heroic  worth. 
But  Enoch  Arden  is  no  dream.  Arthur  is  no 
myth.  I  know  a  man  whose  heart  is  as  pure, 
whose  conduct  as  above1  reproach,  and  whose 
words  are  as  big  with  charity,  and  thoughts  as 
foreign  to  hypocrisy,  as  Arthur's  were;  for  Arthur 
is  not  dead.  They  did  not  dream  who  said, 


266       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

"Arthur  returns."  He  hides  his  name,  lest  he  be 
come  spectacular,  a  raree-show,  for  mobs  to  fol 
low  and  shout  hoarse  about;  but  he  is  here.  I 
met  him  yesterday;  and  to-morrow  I  shall  walk 
with  him  by  the  river,  where  the  stream  makes 
music,  and  the  trees  sing  in  minors,  and  the 
shadows  darken  on  the  grass. 

What,  then,  is  this  Arthur's  character  ?  Look 
ing  at  him  as  he  sits  astride  his  steed,  yonder 
at  Camelot,  with  his  visor  up,  he  is  seen  manhood 
at  its  prime.  A  ruddy  face,  with  beard  of  gold, 
holding  the  sun  as  harvests  do.  Tourneys  done, 
the  king  is  turned  battleward,  where  he  is  to  die ; 
and  a  man's  picture  come's  to  have  special  value 
at  his  death.  When  the  wounded  king  is  borne 
by  Bedivere  across  the  echoing  crags  toward  the 
black  funeral  barge,  we  see  him  again,  full  in  the 
face,  and  remember  him  always. 

King  Arthur  was  a  self-made  man.  His  birth 
was  held  to  be  uncertain.  "Is  he  Uther's  son?" 
was  on  many  a  lip.  So  men  yet  sometimes  hold 
to  some  poor  question  of  ancestry  when  worth, 
evident  as  light,  fronts  them.  Some  there  are 
who  live  in  so  narrow  a  mood  as  to  ask  always 
"Where?"  and  never  "What?"  when  the  latter  is 
God's  unvarying  method  of  estimation.  This 
quest  for  ancestry  for  Arthur  is  of  service  to  us 
as  showing  he  had  not  empire  ready  to  his  hand. 
His  kingdom  did  not  make  him;  he  made  his 


KING  ARTHUR  267 

kingdom;  or,  to  give  the  entire  history,  he  made 
himself  and  his  kingdom.  And  this  is  oft-repeated 
history.  When  a  man  makes  a  kingdom,  he  first 
made  himself.  He  does  two  things.  Might  goes 
not  single,  loves  not  solitude,  but  makes  itself 
company.  Milton  made  himself  before  he  made 
the  Bible  epic  of  the  world.  He  wrought  himself 
and  his  complex  history  into  his  Iliad  of  heavenly 
battle.  Souls  have,  in  a  true  sense,  a  beaten  path 
to  tread.  There  is  a  highway  worn  to  ruts  and 
dust  by  travel  of  the  great  men's  feet.  And  Arthur 
had  much  company,  if  he  knew  it  not.  Such  men 
seem  alone,  though  if  they  saw  all  their  com 
panionships  they  would  know  they  walked  on  in 
a  goodly  company  and  great.  Greatness  has 
many  fellowships,  as  stars  have ;  and  stars  have 
fellowship  of  mountains  and  woods,  and  kindred 
stars,  and  waters  where  star-shadows  lie,  and 
oceans  where  galaxies  tumble  like  defeated  angels. 
All  greatness  is  self-made.  Names  are  bequeathed 
us,  so  much  is  borrowed.  Character  and  value 
are  self-made.  Gold  has  intrinsic  worth.  Man 
has  not,  but  makes  his  worth  by  the  day's  labor 
of  his  hands. 

This  provision  is  God's  excellent  antidote  to 
dissatisfaction  with  one's  estate.  If  worth  could 
be  handed  down,  like  name  or  fortune,  one  might 
as  well  be  a  pasture-field,  to  pass  from  hand  to 
hand  as  chattel,  instead  of  man.  Far  otherwise 


268       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

God's  plan.  Each  spirit  works  out,  and  must 
work  out,  his  own  destiny.  Destinies  are  not 
ready-made  but  hand-made.  King  Arthur's  fame 
is  not  dependent  on  his  ancestry,  but  on  himself. 
Ancestry  we  can  not  control ;  self  we  can.  Tenny 
son,  though  part  of  a  hereditary  system,  sees  with 
perfect  clearness  how  ancestry  accounts  for  no 
man,  and  how  every  man  must  make  his  own 
room  in  the  world;  how  nobility  depends,  not  on 
a  family's  past,  but  on  the  individual's  present; 
how  wealth  and  service  are  the  credentials  of  char 
acter  society  will  accept,  and  the  only  credentials. 
This  view  is  scarcely  English,  but  is  fully  Amer 
ican.  And  Tennyson  was  not  sympathetic  with 
America.  Democracies  possessed  not  the  flavor 
of  the'  fruit  he  loved.  When,  however,  the  biog 
raphy  of  greatness  is  to  be  written,  who  writes 
the  story,  if  he  write  it  truly,  must  tell  a  story 
of  democracy.  Tennyson  is  unconscious  demo 
crat  when  he  writes  Arthur's  biography,  because 
as  poet  he  saw.  His  intuitions  le'd  him.  He 
spoke,  not  as  a  lover  of  a  certain  social  and  polit 
ical  system,  but  as  a  discerner  of  spirits.  The 
poet  is  not  his  best  as  a  planned  philosophizer ; 
for  in  that  role  he  becomes  self-conscious ;  but 
is  at  his  be'st  when  the  wheel  of  his  burning  spirit, 
revolving  as  the  planets  do,  throws  off  sparks 
or  streams  of  fire.  To  the  accuracy  of  this  ob 
servation  witness  both  Browning  and  Tennyson. 


KING  ARTHUR  269 

When  they  were  "possessed,"  as  the  Delphic 
oracle  would  say,  they  marched  toward  truth  like 
an  invincible  troop.  Truth  seemed  the  missing 
half  of  their  own  sphere,  toward  which,  by  a  subtle 
and  lordly  gravitation,  they  swung.  When  Tenny 
son's  instincts  speak,  he  is  democrat;  when  his 
reason  and  his  prejudice  (for  he  was  surcharged 
with  both)  speak,  he  is  hot  aristocrat.  When 
he  is  biographer  for  royal  Arthur,  his  instinct 
speaks,  and  his  conviction  holds  that  character 
and  deeds  do  and  shall  count  for  more  than  blood ; 
and  this  i.<=  *io  isolated  idea  advanced  touching 
Arthur,  but  is  prevalent  throughout  his  verse.  In 
"Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,"  his  heart  speaks,  full 
of  eagerness,  saying: 

"Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 
'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 
And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood." 

Nor  is  the  Laureate's  subsequent  acceptance 
of  the  peerage  a  retraction  of  these  earlier  senti 
ments  ;  for  he  did  but  accept  the  ribbon  of  an 
order  which  was  part  of  the  political  system  of 
his  native  land.  Himself  was  self-made.  Who 
were  the  Tennysons?  Who  are  the  Tennysons? 
He  made  a  house.  And  in  the  list  of  lords,  does 
any  one  think  there  is  a  name  whose  device  one 
would  rather  wear  than  that  of  Lord  Tennyson? 


270      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Holland  has  this  bit  of  verse,  whose  application 
is  apparent: 

"Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round." 

Genius  does  the  same.  The  stairs  each  gen 
eration  climbed  are  rotten  at  its  death,  so  that 
no  foot's  weight  can  be  borne  upon  them  after 
ward.  Man  builds  his  own  stairway  greatness- 
ward.  In  the  Idyl  of  the  King,  entitled  "Gareth 
and  Lynette,"  is  application  of  this  thought  of 
manhood  above  title  or  name  or  blood.  Worth, 
the  main  thing,  is  the  theme  of  the  idyl. 

Hear  Gareth  call,  like  voice  of  trumpets, 

"Let  be  my  name ;  until  I  make  my  name 
My  deeds  will  speak." 

He  seemed,  and  was  not,  a  kitchen  knave.  He 
seemed  not,  and  he  was,  a  knight  of  valor  and  of 
purity  and  might,  of  purpose  and  of  succor.  Silly 
Lynette  might  rain  her  superficial  insults  on  him 
like  a  winter's  sleet — this  hindered  not  his  service. 
He  knew  to  wait,  and  dare,  and  do.  His  fame  was 
in  him.  A  great  life  bears  not  its  honors  on  its 
back,  as  mountains  do  their  pines,  but  in  his 
heart,  as  women  do  their  love.  In  Tennyson's 
concept  of  manhood,  worth  counts,  not  rank.  To 


KING  ARTHUR  271 

this  argument,  words   from   "In  Memoriam"  are 
a  contribution : 

"As  some  divinely-gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a  simple  village  green; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 
And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star; 

Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mold  a  mighty  State's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne; 

And  moving  on  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  center  of  a  world's  desire." 

Such  words  seem  as  if  fallen  from  the  lips  of 
Lincoln  in  a  dream.  "Aylmer's  Field"  is  a  pro 
test,  written  in  grief  and  tears  and  blood  against 
the  iniquity  of  ancestry  as  divorced  from  the  pure 
course  of  nobler  love.  God  made  of  one  blood 
all  kindreds  of  the  earth,  and  means  to  mix  this 
blood  till  time  shall  die.  Hearts  give  scant  heed 
to  heraldry.  Life  is  wider  than  a  baron's  field. 
Arthur  Hallam,  whose  epitaph  is  the  sweetest  ever 
written,  and  bears  title  of  "In  Memoriam," — 
Arthur  Hallam,  so  greatly  loved  and  missed,  was 
never  nobleman  in  genealogy,  but  was  full  prince 


272       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

in  youth  and  ideality  and  purity  and  genius  and 
promise,  worth  more  than  all  the  ancestries  of 
buried  kings.  More :  Tennyson  was  as  much  self- 
made  as  King  Arthur.  He  made  a  house  which 
rose  to  the  sound  of  poet's  lute,  rehearsing,  in 
our  days,  the  story  of  Orpheus  in  the  remote 
yesterdays.  So  myths  come  to  be  history.  And 
who  would  not  rather  be  author  of  "The  Lotos- 
Eaters,"  and  "CEnone,"  and  "Ulysses,"  and 
"Enoch  Arden,"  and  "In  Mernoriam"  than  to  have 
been  possessed,  with  Sir  Aylmer  Aylmer,  of 

"Spacious  hall, 

Hung  with  a  hundred  shields,  the  family  tree 
Sprung  from  the  midriff  of  a  prostrate  king?" 

King  Arthur's  knights  were  novi  viri.  Whence 
came  Lancelot  and  Geraint  and  Sir  Percivale? 
And  how  came  they,  save'  as 

"Rising  on  their  dead  selves 
To  higher  things?" 

Arthur,  at  whose  back  march  all  the  legions 
of  Tennyson's  poetry  celebrative  of  manhood, — 
Arthur  asserts  the  nobleness  of  manhood,  irre 
spective  of  the  accidents  of  wealth  or  birth.  Many 
scenes  in  Tennyson  are  taken  from  the  cottage. 
"The  May  Queen,"  "The  Gardener's  Daughter," 
"The  Grandmother,"  "Rizpah,"  and,  above  all, 
"Enoch  Arden,"  are  poems  showing  how  poetry 


KING  ARTHUR  273 

dwells  in  the  hearts  of  common  folks.  The  verse 
of  books  they  may  not  know;  the  verse  of  senti 
ment  they  are  at  home  with.  Birth  is  not  a  term 
in  the  proportion  of  worth ;  and  I  hold  Arthur 
one  of  the  strongest  voices  of  our  century  assert 
ive  of  the  sufficiency  of  manhood.  Self-made  and 
greatly  made  was  this  king  at  Camelot. 

King  Arthur  was  optimist.  He  expected  good 
in  men,  was  not  suspicious.  "Interpreting  others 
"by  his  own  pure  heart,"  you  interject,  "He  was 
duped."  The'  harlot  Vivien  called  him  fool,  and 
despised  him ;  but  she  was  fallen,  shameful,  treach 
erous,  and,  what  was  worse,  so  fallen  as  not  to 
see  the  beauty  in  untarnished  manhood,  which  is 
the  last  sign  of  turpitude.  Many  bad  men  have 
still  left  an  honest  admiration  for  a  goodness 
themselves  are  alien  to.  Vivien  was  so  lost  as 
that  goodness,  manhood,  knightliness,  sweet  and 
tall  as  mountain  pines,  made  no  appeal  to  her. 
Filth  is  dearer  to  some  than  mountain  air.  She 
was  such.  A  fallen  woman,  given  over  to  her 
fall,  is  horrible  in  depravity.  Merlin  saw  that  her 
estimate  of  Arthur  was  the  measure  of  herself. 
Beatrix  Esmond  did  not  appreciate  Henry  Es 
mond  ;  for  the  Pretender  was  her  measure  of  soul. 
Though  to  her  praise  be  it  said  that,  in  her  old 
age,  Esmond  dead,  she  thought  of  him  as  women 
think  of  Christ.  Arthur  believed  in  men,  sup 
posing  them  to  be  transcripts  of  himself;  and  in 
18 


274      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

so  doing  in  details,  he  erred.  His  philosophy  of 
goodness  was  erroneous ;  for  he  held  to  the  theory 
of  goodness  by  environment,  fencing  knights  and 
ladies  about  with  his  own  fine  honor  and  chastity, 
supposing  pure  environment  would  make  them 
pure,  forgetting  how  God's  kingdom  is  always 
within.  Environment  is  not  gifted  to  make  men 
good.  Arthur  believed  men  pure,  nor  was  he 
wholly  wrong.  The  men  about  him  gave  the  lie 
to  his  expectation;  but  these  moral  ragamuffins 
did  not  invalidate  the  king's  faith.  The  road  taken 
was  not  the  world.  Lancelot  and  Guinevere  and 
Gawain  and  Modred,  false?  False!  Pelleas,  see 
ing  Ettarre  lustful  and  untrue,  digging  rowels  into 
his  steed  and  crying,  "False !  false !"  was  not  wise 
as  Arthur.  The'  optimist  is  right.  Some  were 
false,  'tis  true;  but  others  were  true  as  crystal 
streams,  that  all  night  long  give  back  the  heavens 
star  for  star.  There  were  and  are  true  men  and 
women.  Our  neighborhood,  if  so  be  it  is  foul, 
is  not  the  earth.  Enid,  and  Elaine,  and  Sir  Gala 
had,  and  Sir  Percivale,  and  Gareth,  and  others 
not  designated,  were  pure.  Snows  on  city  streets 
are  stained  with  soot  and  earth;  snows  on  the 
mountains  are1  as  white  as  woven  of  the  beams 
of  noon.  King  Arthur,  expecting  the  better  of 
the  world,  in  so  doing  followed  the  example  of 
his  Savior,  Christ,  who  was  most  surely  optimist. 
King  Arthur,  in  his  midnight  hour,  when  knight 


KING  ARTHUR  275 

and  wife  and  Lancelot  deserted  him,  when  his 
"vast  pity  almost  made  him  die,"  still  kept  the 
lamp  of  hope  aflame  and  sheltered  from  the  wind, 
lest  it  flame,  flare,  and  die.  His  fool  still  loved 
him  and  clasped  his  feet;  and  bold  Sir  Bedivere 
staid  with  him  through  the  thunder  shock  of  that 
last  battle  in  the  west.  Not  all  were  false.  Some 
friends  abide.  Though  his  application  was  not  al 
ways  wise,  his  attitude  was  justified.  Having  done 
his  part,  he  had  not  been  betrayed;  for  he  was 
still  victor.  Lancelot  and  Guinevere  were  de 
feated,  ruined,  as  were  Gawain  and  Ettarre,  who, 
as  they  wake',  find  across  their  naked  throats  the 
bare  sword  of  Pelleas;  then  Ettarre  knew  what 
knight  was  knightly.  Goodness  wins  in  the  long 
battle,  though  supposed  defeated  in  the  petty 
frays.  Tennyson  makes  his  ideal  man  an  optimist. 
"Maud"  is  a  study  in  pessimism.  The  lover's  blood 
is  tainted  with  insanity.  He  raves,  is  suspicious, 
is  at  war  with  all  things  and  all  men;  rails  at 
the  social  system,  not  from  any  broad  sympathy 
with  better  things,  but  from  a  strident  selfishness, 
rasping  and  self-proclamatory,  lacking  elevation, 
save  as  his  love  puts  wings  beneath  him  for  a 
moment  and  lifts  him,  as  eagles  billow  up  their 
young;  is 'weak,  and  tries  to  cover  weakness  up 
by  ranting.  We  pity,  then  despise  him,  then  pity 
him  once  more,  and  in  sheer  charity  think  him 
raving  mad.  Stand  Maud's  lover  alongside  King 


276       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

Arthur,  and  how  splendid  does  King  Arthur  look ! 
The  lover  was  pessimist  and  wrong;  Arthur  was 
optimist  and,  in  his  temper,  right.  Though  hacked 
at  by  the  careless  or  vicious  swords  of  cumulating 
hatreds,  underestimations,  selfishness,  and  lewd- 
ness  of  lesser  and  cruder  souls,  knowing,  as  he 
did,  how  God  is  on  goodness'  side,  knew,  there 
fore,  who  is  on  God's  side  keeps  hope  in  good, 
believing  better  things.  Those  who,  thinking 
themselves  shrewd,  and  are  perennially  suspicious, 
do  really  lack  in  shrewdness,  lacking  depth.  The 
far  view  is  the  serene  view.  Pelleas,  too,  is  a 
study  in  lost  faith.  He  was  near-sighted  in  his 
moral  life,  and  so,  in  losing  faith  in  Ettarre,  lost 
faith  in  womanhood,  a  conclusion  not  justified 
from  the  premises ;  and  you  hear  him  in  the  wild 
night,  crying  as  beasts  of  the  desert  cry,  and  what 
he  hisses  as  you  pass  is,  "I  have  no  sword." 
Arthur  kept  his  sword  till  time  came  to  give  it 
back  to  the  "arm  clothed  in  white  samite."  He 
threw  not  his  sword  away  until  his  hand  could 
hold  it  no  longer.  Hands  and  swords  must  keep 
company  while  life  and  strength  remain,  and  who 
breaks  or  throws  sword  away  from  sheer  despair 
has  lost  sight  of  duty,  in  so  far  that  our  business 
is  to  do  battle  valiantly  and  constantly  for  right 
eousness,  and  keep  the  sword  at  play  in  spite  of 
dubious  circumstances.  Battles  are  often  on  the 
point  of  being  won  when  they  look  on  the  point 


KING  ARTHUR  277 

of  being  lost,  as  was  the  case  with  Pelleas,  whose 
hope  died  just  at  the  hour  when  hope  ought  to 
have  begun  shouts  befitting  triumph;  for  that 
night  when  he  lay  his  naked  sword  across  Ettarre's 
naked  neck,  she,  waking  and  finding  whose'  sword 
was  lying,  like  a  mad  menace,  on  her  breast,  re 
covered  her  womanhood,  loved  the  knight,  who 
came  and  went,  and  slew  her  not,  as  his  right  was, 
and  loved  him  to  her  death;  while  he,  the  cause 
of  her  reformation,  swung  through  the  gloomy 
night  with  faith  and  courage  lost.  He  should 
have  held  his  faith,  however  his  trust  in  one  had 
been  shamed  and  sunk.  Faith  in  one  snuffed  out 
is  not  in  logic  to  lose  faith;  for  all  are  more  than 
one.  Trust  Arthur;  he  was  right.  Pessimism  is 
no  sane  mood.  All  history  conspires  to  justify 
his  attitude.  Himself  inspires  optimism  in  us,  and 
the  three  queens  wait  for  him,  and  the  black 
funeral  barge  that  bears  him,  not  to  his  funeral, 
but  to  some  fair  city  where  there  seems  one  voice, 
and  that  a  voice  of  welcome  to  this  king;  and 
besides  all  this,  his  name  lights  our  nights  till 
now,  as  if  he  were  some  sun,  pre-empting  night 
as  well  as  day.  Has  not  his  optimism  been  justi 
fied  a  hundred-fold  ?  Do  those  who  view  the  pres 
ent  only,  think  to  see  all  the  landscape  where 
deeds  reap  victories?  Time  is  so  essential  in  the 
propagandism  of  good.  Time  is  the  foe  of  evil, 
but  sworn  ally  of  good.  God  owns  the  future. 


278       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

King  Arthur  considered  life  a  chance  for  serv 
ice.  Life  is  no  abstraction,  no  theoretical  science ; 
rather  concrete,  experimental.  Magician  Merlin's 
motto,  too.  We  may  think  or  act,  though  this 
of  conduct.  We  may  think  or  act,  though  this 
disjunctive  is  wrong,  wholly  wrong.  There  is  no 
separation  between  act  and  thought  in  a  wise  es 
timate.  They  are  not  enemies,  but  friends.  We 
are  to  think  and  act.  We  are,  in  a  word,  not  to 
dream  or  do,  but  dream  and  do,  the  dreaming 
being  prelude  to  the  doing.  Who  dreams  not  is 
metallic.  Dreams  redeem  deeds  from  being 
stereotyped,  and  make  motions  sinuous  and 
graceful  as  a  bird's  flight  across  the  sky;  and 
when  they  impregnate  conduct,  deed  becomes  in 
stinct  with  a  melody  thrilling  and  sweet  as  a  wood- 
thrush  note.  Arthur  was  no  mystic.  He  did  not 
dwell  apart  from  men;  he  was  a  part  of  men. 
"The  Mystic"  is  an  admirable  conception  of  the 
soul,  living  remote  from  society  and  action,  see 
ing  our  world  as  through  a  smoke.  Mysticism 
has  its  truth  and  power.  Many  of  us  bluster  and 
do,  and  do  not  stand  apart  and  dwell  enough  with 
the  unseen. 

"Always  there  stood  before  him,  night  and  day, 
The  imperishable  presences  serene, 
One  mighty  countenance  of  perfect  calm;" 
And 

"Angels  have  talked  with  him  and  showed  him  thrones." 


KING  ARTHUR  279 

So  much  in  him  is  needed  to  a  soul  hungry 
to  be  fortified  for  danger,  duty,  manliness.  De 
spise  not  a  mystic's  brooding,  but  recall  that 
brooding  is  not  terminal;  that  he  who  broods 
alone'  has  left  life  wearying  around  him  as  he 
found  it,  while  his  need  was  to  change  the  cir 
cumambient  air  of  thought  and  action  into  some 
thing  better  than  it  was;  and  for  such  change  he 
must  associate  him  with  the  lives  he  fain  would 
help.  Arthur  brooded  and  dreamed,  and  saw  the 
Christ,  and  then  conceived  his  worthiest  service 
to  be  to  interpret  the  What  he  heard  and  Whom 
Tie  saw  to  men;  and  in  pursuance  of  such  purpose 
he  lived  with  knights,  ladies,  soldiers,  and  country 
men.  Him  they  saw  and  knew.  "St.  Simeon 
Stylites"  is  an  application  of  another  side  of  the 
same  thought.  Heroism  is  in  this  pillar  saint,  but 
a  mistaken  heroism.  He  stands, 

"A  sign  betwixt  the  meadow  and  the  cloud." 
But  to  what  purpose?    Hear  him  call, 
"I  smote  them  with  the  cross," 

and  feel  assured  from  such  a  word  that  he  who 
spoke,  had  he  been  where  the  battle  raged,  had 
left  his  stroke  on  many  a  shield;  for  his  words 
have  the  crash  of  a  Crusader's  ax.  What  a  loss 
it  was  to  men  that  St.  Simeon  came  not  down 
from  his  pillar,  clothed  himself,  made  himself  clean 


28o       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

and  wholesome,  instead  of  filthy  and  revolting, 
and  dwelt  with  people  for  whom  Christ  died.  A 
religious  recluse  is  a  religious  ignoramus,  since 
he  does  not  know  that  the  one-syllable  word  in 
the  vocabulary  of  Christ  is,  "Be  of  use."  The 
problem  of  living,  as  Arthur  saw  vividly,  was  not 
how  to  get  yourself  through  the  world  unhurt,  but 
how  to  do  the  most  for  some  one  besides  yourself 
while  you  are  in  the  world ;  and  this  attitude  is 
otherness,  altruism.  Nurture  strength  to  use. 
Pass  your  might  on.  Knighthood  was  to  serve 
everybody  else  first,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Founder  of  knighthood,  even  Christ,  "who  came, 
not  to  be  ministered  unto,  but  to  minister."  King 
Arthur  served.  Play  battles  stung  him  not  to 
prowess,  but,  as  Lancelot  saw,  in  the  actual  battle, 
the  hero  was  not  Lancelot,  but  Arthur.  May  be 
a  too  de'ep  seriousness  was  in  him.  I  think  it 
probable.  He  had  been  more  masterful  in  wield 
ing  men  had  he  been  colored  more  by  laughter 
and  jest.  We  must  not  take  ourselves,  nor  yet 
the  world,  with  too  continuous  seriousness.  There 
are  intervals  between  battles  when  warriors  may 
rest,  and  intervals  in  the'  stress  of  deeds  and  sor 
row  where  room  is  given  for  the  caress  and  whole 
some  jest.  That  arch-jester,  Jack  Falstaff,  had 
much  reason  with  him.  We  like  him,  despite  him 
self,  and  despite  ourselves,  because  there  was  in 
him  such  comradery.  Though  he  was  boister- 


KING  ARTHUR  281 

cms,  yet  was  he  jovial.  All  characters,  save  Christ, 
have  limitations.  Arthur  had  his.  Lack  of  spright- 
liness  was  his  mistake  and  lack.  But  the  work 
to  be  done  fills  him  writh  might  unapproachable, 
so  that, 

"Like  fire,  he  meets  the  foe, 
And  strikes  him  dead  for  thine  and  thee." 

He  is  no  play  soldier,  and  foemen  mark  his 
sword  as  a  thing  to  fear.  A  mutilated  herdsman, 
rushing  into  Cserlaen,  and  shaking  bloody  story 
from  his  hideous  wounds,  which,  Arthur  hearing, 
though  a  tourneyment  would  blow  its  bugles  on 
the  plain  erelong,  forgets  the  coming  joust,  re 
membering  only  a  wrong  to  be  avenged,  and  evil 
doers  to  be'  punished  or  destroyed,  so  they  may 
no  longer  be  a  noxious  presence  in  the  land,  and 
goes,  and  at  tourney's  close  comes  back,  through 
the  dark  night,  wet  with  rain ;  but  he  has  cleansed 
the  hostile  land  of  villains  on  that  day.  In  human 
nature  is  a  bias  to  escape  the  world,  to  get  out 
of  the  turmoil,  to  seek  cloisters  of  quiet,  which 
bias  "The  Holy  Grail"  attacks.  Arthur  was  no 
friend  to  the  pursuit  of  the  grail ;  not  that  he 
loves  not,  with  a  passion  white  as  sun's  flame,  the 
good  and  pure,  but  that  he  has  sagacity  to  see 
such  quest  will  scatter  the  round  table  and  its 
fellowship,  and  would  dispeople  his  forces,  whose 
presence  makes  for  peace  and  sovereignty  in  all 


282       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER  FOI«K 

his  realm  and  compels  the  sovereignty  of  law. 
Him,  their  king,  these  errant  knights  heeded  not, 
so  enticing  and  noble  seemed  the  warfare  they 
espoused,  and  thought  their  sovereign  cold  and 
calculating,  while,  in  fact,  he  knew  them  for  vision 
aries.  He  was  right.  Without  them  he  was 
bankrupt  in  strength  to  compel  social  betterment. 
The  visionary,  in  so  far  as  he  is  simply  visionary, 
is  foe  to  progress;  for  progress  comes  by  battle 
and  by  association  in  affairs,  and  he  who  would 
be  helper  to  the  better  life  of  man  must  mix  with 
the  currents  of  his  time.  Snowdrifts  in  the  moun 
tains  and  on  the  northern  slopes  that  hold  snows 
in  their  shadows  for  the  summer's  use ;  and  dark 
mountain  meadows,  where  fogs  and  rains  soak 
every  particle  of  sod,  and  waters  percolate  through 
the  spongy  root  and  soil  to  form  bubbling 
streams;  and  the  pines,  whose  shadows  make  a 
cool  retreat  where  streams  may  not  be  drained 
dry  by  the  sun;  the  silver  threads  of  tributary 
brooks ;  the  sponge  of  mountain  mosses,  which 
squeezes  its  cup  of  water  into  a  larger  laver, — all 
these  seem  remote  from  the  broad  river  on  whose 
flood  merchants'  fleets  are  slumbering,  nor  seem 
participants  with  these  floodgates  to  the  sea;  yet 
are  they  adjuncts,  though  so  far  removed,  and 
pay  their  tribute  to  the  flood. 

Their  service  was  as  pronounced  and  valuable 
as  if  they  had  been  huge  as  Orontes.     There  is 


KING  ARTHUR  283 

an  absence  which  is  presence,  and  there  is  a  pres 
ence  which  is  absence;  and  what  is  asked  of  all 
men,  near  or  far,  is  that  they  be  helpers  to  the 
general  good.  They  must  not,  by  intent  or  mis 
take,  escape  their  share  of  the  public  burden. 

A  poet  seems  apart,  and  is  not,  but  is  to  be 
esteemed  a  portion  of  this  world's  most  turbulent 
life.  To  intend  to  have  a  share  in  this  world's 
business  is  important.  To  shun  the  taking  up 
your  load  when  need  is,  is  to  be  coward  when 
your  honor  bids  you  be  courage'ous.  This  means, 
be  a  citizen,  neglect  no  office  in  that  worthy  re 
lation;  be  not  wandering  knights,  pursuing  fire 
flies,  supposing  them  to  be  stars ;  but  be  as  Arthur, 
who  found  the  Holy  Grail,  and  drained  its  sacra 
mental  wine  in  truest  fashion,  in  "staying  by  the' 
stuff ;"  in  being  statesman,  soldier,  defender  of  the 
weak,  reformer,  liver  of  a  clean  life  in  public 
place,  builder  of  a  State,  negotiator  of  schemes 
which  make  for  the  diminution  of  earth's  ills  and 
increase  of  earth's  fairer  provinces.  Edward  the 
Confessor  was  a  monk,  wearing  a  king's  crown 
and  refusing  to  discharge  a  king's  offices,  and 
thought  himself  a  saint  by  such  omission,  when 
what  God  and  the  realm  wanted  and  needed  was 
a  man  to  rule  and  suffer  for  the  common  weal. 
Arthur  was  not  a  thing  "enskied  and  sainted;" 
rather  a  wholesome  man,  whose  duty  lay  in  work 
ing  for  men.  Sir  Percivale  became  a  monk ;  other 


284      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

knights  returned  no  more',  thus  spilling  the  best 
blood  of  the  table  round.  Meantime  the  king's 
enemies  multiplied,  and  these  visionaries  deci 
mated  the  ranks  of  opposition  to  the  wrong;  but 
come  what  would,  King  Arthur  served.  An  ap 
peal  to  him  for  help  found  answer,  though  treasons 
plotted  at  his  back.  As  to  his  last  battle,  though 
his  heart  was  breaking,  he  marched  nor  paused, 
perceiving,  so  long  as  he  was  king,  he  must  up 
hold  the  order  of  the  State1.  He  was  no  dilettante. 
Great  service  called  him,  and  he  thought  he  heard 
the  voice  of  God.  Duty  is  a  ponderous  word  in 
Arthur's  lexicon.  In  "Lucretius,"  Tennyson 
shows  the  moral  apathy  of  materialism  by  letting 
us  look  on  at  a  suicidal  death,  and  hear  the  cry, 
half-rage  and  half-despair,  "What  is  duty?"  and 
in  that  fated  cry,  atheism  has  run  its  course.  Here 
it  empties  into  its  dead  sea,  and  materialism  finds 
its  only  possible  outcome.  This  materialist  of  long 
ago  is  the  mouthpiece  for  his  fraters  in  these 
last  days.  There  is  one  speech,  and  that  a  speech 
of  dull  despair,  for  those  who  say  there  is  no 
God;  and  for  them  who  have  no  God,  there  is 
no  duty,  for  duty  is  born  of  hold  on  God.  King 
Arthur,  sure  of  God,  therefore  never  asking, 
"What  is  duty?"  but  in  its  stead  urges  the  nobler 
query,  "Where  is  duty?"  and  so  infused  himself 
into  the  blood  of  empire;  aye,  and  more,  into  the 
spiritual  blood  of  uncalendared  centuries. 


KING  ARTHUR  285 

And  King  Arthur  was  pure.  Vice  is  so  often 
glorified  and  offers  such  chromo  tints  to  the  eye 
as  that  many  superficial  folks  think  virtue  tame 
and  vice  exhilarating.  Here  lies  the  difficulty. 
They  look  on  those  parts  which  are  contiguous 
to  vice,  but  are  really  not  parts  of  it.  In  the 
self  of  vice  is  nothing  attractive.  Lying,  lusl, 
envy,  hate,  debauchery, — which  of  these  is  not 
tainted?  Penuriousness  is  vice  unadorned,  and 
who  thinks  it  fair  ?  Like  Spenser's  "false  Duessa," 
it  is  revolting.  Drunkenness,  bestiality,  spleen, — 
what  roseate  views  shall  you  take  of  these  ?  Who 
admires  Caliban?  And  Caliban  is  vice,  standing 
in  its  naked  vileness  and  vulgarity.  Man,  meant 
for  manhood,  self-reduced  to  brutehood, — that  is 
drunkenness.  In  an  era  when  Dumas  by  fascinat 
ing  fictions  was  making  vice  ingratiating,  Tenny- 
was  rendering  virtue  magnificent.  Can  any  per 
son  of  just  judgment  rise  from  reading  "Idyls  of 
the  King"  without  feeling  a  repugnance  toward 
vice',  like  a  nausea,  and  a  magnetism  in  virtue? 
An  admiration  for  Arthur  becomes  intense.  The 
poet  draws  no  moral  from  his  parable :  doing  what 
is  better,  he  puts  morals  into  one's  blood.  While 
never  railing  at  Guinivere,  he  makes  us  ashamed 
of  her  and  for  her,  and  does  the  same  with  Lance 
lot.  He  makes  virtue  eloquent.  King  Arthur  is 
neither  drunkard  nor  libertine,  therein  contradict 
ing  the  pet  theories  of  many  people's  heroes.  He 


286       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

loves  cleanness  and  is  clean.  He  demands  in  man 
a  purity  equal  to  woman's;  setting  up  one  stand 
ard  of  mortals  and  not  two.  The  George  Fourth 
style  of  king,  happily,  Arthur  is  not;  for  George 
was  a  shame  to  England  and  to  men  at  large, 
while  Arthur  is  a  glory,  burning  on  above  the 
cliffs  of  Wales,  like  some  brave  sunrise  whose 
colors  never  fade'.  To  men  and  women,  he  is 
one  law  of  virtue  and  one  law  of  love.  When 
the  years  have  spent  their  strength,  then  vice 
shows  itself  hideous  vice.  The  glamour  vanished, 
no  one  can  love  or  plead  for  wickedness.  Virtue 
is  wholly  different;  for  to  it  the  ages  burn  in 
cense  each  year,  rendering  its  loveliness  more  ap 
parent  and  bountiful.  Virtue  grows  in  beauty, 
like  some  dear  face  we  love.  Heroism  is  virtue; 
manliness  is  virtue;  devotion  is  virtue.  Sum  up 
those  remembered  deeds  of  which  the  centuries 
speak,  and  you  will  find  them  noble,  virtuous. 
Seen  as  it  is,  and  with  the  light  of  history  on 
its  face,  vice  is  uncomely  as  a  harlot's  painted 
face.  King  Arthur  is  virile  and  he  is  noble,  en 
gaging  and  fascinating  us  like  a  romance  written 
by  a  master,  full  of  persuasive  sweetness  and  en 
during  help. 

Besides,  King  Arthur  was  a  religious  man. 
This  is  the  transparent  explanation  of  his  career. 
He  is  an  attempted  incarnation  of  the  precepts 
and  love  of  Christ.  This  long-vanished  prince 


KING  ARTHUR  287 

knew  that  if  a  king  might  but  repe'at  the  miracle 
of  Jesus'  life  in  his  own  history,  he  would  have 
achieved  kingship  indeed.  "Mea  vita  vota"  was 
Dempster's  motto, — a  sentiment  Arthur  knew  by 
heart.  His  life  was  owed  to  God,  and  right  man 
fully  he'  paid  his  debt.  Arthur  exalted  God  in 
his  heart  and  court  and  on  hard-fought  field.  So 
intense  and  vivid  his  sense  of  God,  he  reminds 
us  of  the  Puritan;  but  the  Puritan  touched  to 
beatific  beauty  by  the  interpretation  of  love  God's 
Christ  came  to  give.  Tennyson  always  made 
much  of  God,  saw  Him  immanent  in  every  hope 
of  human  betterment,  saying,  as  we  remember  and 
can  not  forget: 

"Our  little  systems  have  their  day — 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be: 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee; 
And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they." 

"The  Idyls  of  the  King"  and  "In  Memoriam" 
might  felicitously  be  called  treatises  on  theology 
written  in  verse.  St.  Augustine  and  Wesley  were 
not  more  certainly  theologians  than  this  poet 
Laureate.  The  rest  and  help  that  come  to  men 
in  prayer  is  burned  into  the  soul  in  "Enoch 
Arden :" 

"And  there  he  would  have  knelt,  but  that  his  knees 
Were  feeble,  so  that  falling  prone  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth  and  prayed." 


288       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOL.K 

And 

"He  was  not  all  unhappy.    His  resolve 
Upbore  him,  and  firm  faith  and  evermore 
Prayer  from  a  living  source  within  the  will, 
And  beating  up  through  all  the  bitter  world. 
Like  fountains  of  sweet  water  in  the  sea, 
Kept  him  a  living  soul." 

And  Arthur,  dying,  whispers : 

"More  things  are  wrought  by  prayer 
Than  this  world  dreams  of.    Wherefore  let  thy  voice 
Rise,  like  a  fountain,  for  me  night  and  day. 
For  what  are  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 
That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 
If  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer, 
Both  for  themselves  and  those  that  call  them  friend? 
For  so  the  whole  round  world  is  every  way 
Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God." 

No  wonder  is  there  if  King  Arthur  was 
upheld:  such  faith  makes  impotence  giant- 
strengthed.  He  does  not  tremble.  The  earth 
may  know  perturbations,  but  not  he.  To  tourna 
ment  or  battle,  or  to  death,  he  goes  with  smiling 
face.  His  trust  upholds  him.  So  good  is  faith. 
"In  Memoriam"  is  the  biography  of  doubt  and 
faith  at  war.  The  battle  waxes  sore,  but  the  day 
is  God's.  The  battle  ebbs  to  quiet.  Calm  after 
tempest.  Tennyson  could  not  stay  in  doubt.  'T  is 
not  a  goodly  land.  If  trepidation  has  white  lip 
and  cheek,  't  is  not  forever.  Living  through  an 
age  of  doubt,  Tennyson,  so  sensitive  to  every  cur- 


KING  ARTHUR  289 

rent  of  thought  as  that  he  felt  them  all,  and  in 
that  feeling  and  interpretation  and  strife  for  mas 
tery  over  the  doubt  that  kills,  made  his  book, 
as  Milton  has  it,  "The  precious  life-blood  of  a 
master  spirit ;"  and  ends  with : 

"Sunset  and  evening  star, 
And  one  clear  call  for  me. 

For  though  from  out  our  bourn  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face, 

When  I  have  cross'd  the  bar." 

"In  Memoriam"  is  thought,  King  Arthur  is 
action;  and  action  is  antidote  for  doubt.  Charles 
Kingsley's  advice, 

"Do  noble  deeds,  not  dream  them  all  day  long," 

is  always  pertinent  and  reasonable.  This  is  ex 
planation  of  that  profound  saying  of  Jesus,  "If 
any  man  will  do  my  will,  he  shall  know  of  the 
doctrine."  Life  is  e'xegesis  of  Scripture.  Who 
do  God's  will  catch  sight  of  God's  face,  and  their 
hearts  are  helped.  Lowell's  "Sir  Launfal"  urges 
this  same  truth.  He  who,  for  weary  and  painful 
years,  had  haunted  the  world,  seeking  the  Holy 
Grail  and  finding  not  the  thing  he  sought,  comes 
home  discouraged  to  find  in  winter  his  castle  had 
forgotten  him,  and  he  was  left  a  wreck  of  what  he 
had  been  in  his  better  days ;  yet  finds,  in  giving 
19 


290       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

alms  to  a  leprous  beggar  at  his  castle  gate  to 
whom  he  had  denied  alms  in  the  spirit  of  alms 
when  he  set  out  to  hunt  the  Holy  Grail,  that  in 
so  giving  he  found  the  Christ.  Action  helps  God 
into  the  heart.  Doubts  are,  many  of  them,  brain- 
born  and  academical;  and  such,  service  helps  to 
dispel.  To  Arthur,  God  was  vital  fact.  To  Him 
he  held  as  tenaciously  as  to  his  sword;  and  he 
was  comforted.  All  good  things  are  included  in 
religion,  and  all  great  things.  If  men  become 
martyrs,  they  become  at  the  same  time  function 
aries  in  the  palace  of  every  worthy  spirit.  I  sup 
pose  the  hunger  for  discove'ry  and  knowledge  are 
nothing  other  than  the  soul's  hunger  after  God. 
He  is  the  secret  of  great  discontent.  The  soul 
wants  God,  and  on  the  way  to  Him  are  astron 
omies,  and  literatures,  and  new-found  hemi 
spheres.  Aspiration  finds  voice  in  Christianity. 
"Columbus,"  a  poem  of  resonant  music,  speaks 
aspiration.  Him — 

"Who  pushed  his  prows  into  the  setting  sun, 
And  made  West  East,  and  sailed  the  dragon's  mouth, 
And  came  upon  the  mountain  of  the  world, 
And  saw  the  rivers  roll  from  paradise," — 

him,  God-inspired  as  himself  holds,  saying: 

"And  more  than  once,  in  days 

Of  doubt  and  cloud  and  storm,  when  drowning  hope 
Sank  all  but  out  of  sight,  I  heard  His  voice: 
Be  not  cast  down.    I  lead  thee  by  the  hand; 


KING  ARTHUR  291 

Fear  not, — and  I  shall  hear  his  voice  again — 
I  know  that  He  has  led  me  all  my  life, 
And  I  am  not  yet  too  old  to  work  His  will — 
His  voice  again." 

And  King  Arthur  finds  God  helps  him  into  all 
things  worth  while.  Bravery,  determination,  kind 
ness,  purity,  magnanimity,  safe  faith  in  God's  su 
premacy, — all  spring  about  him  as  he  walks  as 
flowers  about  a  path  in  summer-time.  Nothing 
good  was  foreign  to  him. 

Christianity  is  the  one  philosophy  of  manhood 
in  whose  harness  are  no  vulnerable  parts.  "The 
Palace  of  Art"  presents  the  poet's  perception  of 
the  failure  of  culture.  Ethics,  not  aesthetics,  com 
pel  manhood;  and  behind  ethics,  theology.  God 
must  live  in  life,  if  life  shall  put  on  goodness  as 
a  royal  robe. 

And  such  a  man  as  Arthur  has  passed  into  the1 
enduring  substance  of  this  world's  best  thought 
and  purpose.  We  see  him — not  saw  him.  He  is 
never  past,  but  ever  present.  We  see  him  dying, 
and  with  Sir  Bedivere,  who  loved  him,  cry, 

"Thy  name  and  glory  cling 
To  all  high  places,  like  a  golden  cloud, 
Forever!" 


The  Story  of  the  Pictures 

A  MAN  and  a  woman  were  dreaming.  Both 
were  young;  and  one  was  strong  and  one 
was  fair.  They  were  lovers,  and  the  world  was 
very  beautiful,  and  life  as  rhythmic  as  a  poet's 
verse.  Things  which  to  some'  seem  remote  as 
heaven,  to  youth  and  love  seem  near  enough  to 
touch,  if  one  do  but  stretch  out  the  hand.  This 
youth  and  maid  were  dreaming,  and  their  hands 
were  claspe'd,  and  sometimes  they  looked  in  each 
other's  eyes — sometimes  out  across  the  fields, 
sloping  toward  sunset.  The  world  seemed  young 
as  they,  and  the  sky  was  fairly  singing,  with 
voices  sweet  as  kisses  from  dear  lips  long  ab 
sent, — those  voices  saying,  saying  always,  "Life 
is  fair — is  fair;"  and  receding,  as  blown  by  on  a 
gentle  wind,  drifted  "Life  is  fair;"  and  the  lovers 
looke'd  at  each  other  and  were  glad. 

He  was  an  artist,  and  his  idle  hand  wrought 
pictures  unconsciously.  He  did  not  think  things, 
but  saw  things.  His  lips  were  not  given  to  fre 
quent  speech,  even  with  the  woman  he  loved.  He 
saw  her,  whether  he  sat  thus  beside  her  or  whether 

2Q2 


THE  STORY  OP  THE  PICTURES  293 

he  sat  apart  from  her  with  seas  between — he  saw 
her  always;  for  his  was  the  gift  of  sight.  He 
saw  visions  as  rapt  prophets  do.  Life  was  a 
pageant,  and  he  saw  it  all. 

His  brush  is  part  of  his  hand,  and  his  palette' 
is  as  his  hand's  palm.  Painting  is  to  him  mono 
logue.  He  is  telling  what  he  sees ;  talking  to  him 
self,  as  children  and  poets  do.  Now,  he  talks  to 
the  woman  he  loves  and  to  himself  in  pictures, 
she  saying  nothing,  save  as  her  hand  speaks  in 
a  caress,  and  that  her  eyes  are  dreamy  sweet; 
and  the  artist's  hand  dreams  over  the  paper  with 
glancing  touch,  and  this  picture  grows  before 
their  eyes:  A  man  and  a  woman,  young  and  fair, 
are  on  a  hilltop  alone,  looking  across  a  meadow- 
land,  lovely  with  spring  and  blossoms  and  love- 
making  of  the  birds;  and  ponds  where  lily-pads 
shine  in  the  sun,  like  metal  patines,  floating  on 
the  pool ;  and  a  flock  lying  in  a  quiet  place ;  and 
a  lad  plowing  in  a  field,  the  blackbirds  follow 
ing  his  furrow ;  and  a  blue  sky,  with  dainty  clouds 
of  white  faint  against  it,  like  breathing  against  a 
window-pane  in  winter;  and  a  farmhouse,  where 
early  roses  cluster,  and  little  children  are  at  play, — 
this,  and  his  brush  loiters,  and  the'  woman  knows 
her  artist  has  painted  a  picture  of  youth;  and 
both  look  away  as  in  a  happy  dream. 

The  artist  paints  again:  and  the  landscape  is 
in  nothing  changed.  It  might  have  been  a  re- 


294       A  HKRO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

print  rather  than  a  repainting.  A  morning  land, 
where'  beauty  and  bounty  courted  like  man  and 
maid.  No  tints  were  lost.  The  sunlight  was  un 
failing,  and  roses  clustered  with  their  spendthrift 
grace  and  loveliness;  and  the  woman,  looking  at 
her  lover,  wondered  why  he  painted  the  same 
landscape  twice,  but,  waiting,  saw  the  artist  paint 
two  figures,  a  man  and  woman  at  life's  prime. 
She  sees  they  are  the  youth  and  maid  of  the  first 
picture,  only  older — and  what  besides?  Then  they 
were  a  promise,  a  possibility,  now  they  are — what 
are  they?  They  are  the  same;  they  are  not  the 
same.  She  is  disappointed  in  them ;  not  because 
their  beauty  has  faded,  but  that  their  look  has 
changed.  Their  faces  are  not  haggard,  nor  cut 
with  strange  arabesques  of  pain  and  care,  nor  are 
they  crave'n  or  vicious;  but  the  artist  speeds  his 
hand  as  if  at  play,  while  every  touch  is  bringing 
the  faces  out  until  they  obliterate  the  former 
beauty  utterly.  The  landscape  is  still  dewy  fresh 
and  fair — the  faces  have  no  hint  of  morning  in 
them.  Faces,  not  bad,  but  lacking  tenderness ; 
expression,  self-sufficient;  eyes,  frosty  cold;  and 
the  woman's  eyes  light  on  the  children,  playing 
beside  the  white  farmhouse,  and  in  them  is  no 
inexpressible  tenderness  of  mother-love,  mute,  like 
a  caress;  prosperous  faces  the  world  has  gone 
quite  well  with,  that  is  plain,  but  faces  having  no 
beckoning  in  them,  no  tender  invitation,  like  a 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICTURES          295 

sweet  voice,  saying,  "Enter  and  welcome."  And 
she  who  looked  at  the  pictures  sobbed,  scarcely 
knowing  why,  only  the1  man  and  woman  sorely 
disappointed  her  when  they  had  grown  to  matu 
rity;  poetry  and  welcome  and  promise  had  faded 
from  them  as  tints  fade  from  a  withered  flower. 
So  much  was  promised — so  little  was  fulfilled. 

Meantime,  while'  these  lovers  sit  on  the  hill 
side,  and  the  artist  has  been  talking  in  pictures 
as  the  clouds  do,  the  sun  has  sloped  far  toward 
setting.  The  west  is  aflame,  like  a  burning 
palace ;  the  crows  are  flapping  tired  wings  toward 
their  nests ;  the  swallows  are  sporting  in  the  air, 
as  children  do  in  surf  of  the  blue  seas ;  smoke 
from  the  farm  chimneys  visible  begins  to  lie  level 
across  the  sky,  and  stays  like  a  cloud  at  anchor. 
But  the  artist's  hand  is  busy  with  another  pic 
ture. 

And  the  landscape  is  the  same.  Mayhap  he  is 
not  versatile;  and,  think  again,  mayhap  he  has 
purpose  in  his  reduplication.  Like  wise  men,  let 
us  wait  and  see.  A  springtime-land  as  of  old,  and 
two  figures ;  and  the  woman  he  loves  watches, 
while  her  breathing  is  strangely  like  a  sob.  Now 
the  figures  are  a  man  and  a  woman,  stooped  and 
gray.  "Age,"  she  says,  "you  paint  age  now,  and 
age — is  not  beautiful ;"  and  he,  answering  with 
neither  lips  nor  eyes,  paints  swiftly  on.  The  man 
is  aged  and  leaning  on  a  staff.  His  strength  is 


296       \  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

gone.  His  staff  is  not  for  ornament,  but  need. 
The  woman  is  wrinkled,  and  her  hair  is  snowy 
white;  and  the  girl  at  the  artist's  side  tries  vainly 
to  suppress  a  sob.  She,  too,  will  soon  be  gray, 
and  she  loves  not  age  and  decrepitude ;  and  the 
face  in  the  picture  is  faded,  no  rose-tints  in  the 
cheeks.  So  old  and  weak — old  age  is  very  pitiful. 
But  the  picture  is  not  finished  yet.  Wait !  Wait 
a  little,  and  give  the  artist  time.  It  is  not  evening 
yet.  Sunset  lingers  a  little  for  him.  His  hand 
runs  now  like  a  hurrying  tide.  He  is  painting 
faces.  Why  linger  over  the  face  of  age?  If  it 
were  youth — but  age?  But  he  touches  these  aged 
faces  lovingly,  as  a  son  might  caress  his  aged 
father  and  mother  with  hand  and  with  kiss ;  and 
beneath  his  touch  the  aged  faces  grow  warm  and 
tender,  passing  swe'et.  To  look  at  them  was  rest. 
Their  eyes  were  tender  and  brave.  You  remem 
ber  they  were  old  and  feeble  folk — young  once, 
but  long  ago;  but  how  noble  the  old  man's  face, 
scarred  though  it  is  with  saber  cut!  To  see  him 
makes  you  valiant ;  and  to  see  him  longer,  makes 
you  valiant  for  goodness,  which  is  best  of  all. 

And  the  woman's  face  is  lit  with  God's  calm 
and  God's  comfort.  A  smile  is  in  her  eyes,  and  a 
smile  lies,  like  sunlight,  across  her  lips.  Her  hair 
is  the  silver  frame  that  hems  some  precious  pic 
ture  in.  She  is  a  benediction,  blessed  as  the  rest 
ful  night  to  weary  toilers  on  a  burning  day.  And 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  PICTURES          297 

the  artist,  with  a  touch  quick  as  a  happy  thought, 
outlined  a  shadow,  clad  in  tatters,  and  a  child  clad 
in  tatters  at  her  side;  and  the  girl,  leaning  over 
the  painting,  thought  the  chief  shadow  was  Death. 
But  the  artist  hasted;  and  on  a  sudden,  wings 
sprung  from  the  shoulders  of  tattered  mother  and 
child,  and  they  two  lifted  up  their  hands;  the 
woman,  lifting  her  hands  above  the  dear  forms 
of  old  age,  spread  them  out  in  blessing,  and  the 
little  child  lifted  her  hands,  clasped  as  in  prayer; 
and  these  angels  were  Poverty,  praying  for  and 
blessing  the  man  and  woman  who  had  been  their 
help. 

And  the  artist  lover,  under  the  first  picture, 
in  quaint  letters,  such  as  monks  in  remote  ages 
used,  wrote  this  legend,  "To-morrow;"  and  the 
woman,  taking  the  pencil,  wrote  in  her  sweet  girl 
ish  hand,  "Youth  is  Very  Beautiful."  The  artist 
took  back  his  pencil,  and  under  the  second  pic 
ture  scrolled,  "These  Loved  Themselves  Better 
Than  They  Loved  Others ;"  and  the  woman  wrote, 
"Their  To-morrow  was  Failure."  Under  the  third 
picture  the  artist  wrote,  "These  Loved  God  Best 
and  Their  Neighbors  as  Themselves;"  and  the 
woman  took  the  pencil  from  his  hand  and  wrote, 
"Old  Age  is  Very  Beautiful — More  Beautiful  Than 
Youth,"  and  a  tear  fell  and  blotted  some  of  the 
words,  as  a  drop  of  rain  makes  a  blurred  spot  on 
a  dusty  pane.  And  the  lover  said,  "Serving  others 


298       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

is  better  than  serving  ourselves;"  and  the  girl's 
sweet  voice  answering,  like  an  echo,  "Serving 
others  is  better  than  serving  ourselves." 

And  the  sun  had  set.  The  glow  from  the  sky 
was  fading,  as  embers  on  a  hearth,  pale  to  gray 
ashes ;  and  an  owl  called  from  an  elm-tree  on  the 
hillside,  while  the'se  two  arose,  with  faces  like  the 
morning,  and,  taking  the  pictures,  walked  slowly 
as  lovers  will ;  and  so,  fading  into  the  deepening 
twilight,  I  heard  her  saying,  "Serving  others  is 
life  at  its  best,"  and  him  replying,  "Jesus  said, 
'The  poor  ye1  have  always  with  you ;' "  and  their 
footsteps  and  voices  died  away  together  in  the 
gloaming;  and  a  whip-poor-will  called  often  and 
plaintively  from  the  woodland  across  the  field. 


XI 

The  Gentleman  in  Literature 

HUMOR  is  half  pathos  and  more.  This  sword 
has  two  edges.  On  the  one,  shining  like 
burnished  silver,  you  may  see  smiles  reflected  as 
from  a  mirror;  on  the  other,  tears  stand  thick, 
like  dews  on  flowers  at  early  morning  of  the  later 
spring.  Humor  is  a  dual  faculty,  as  much  mis 
conceived  by  those  who  listen  as  by  those  who 
speak.  We  do  not  always  have  wit  to  know  the 
scope  of  what  we  do.  Thoughts  of  childhood, 
says  the  poet,  are  long,  long  thoughts ;  but  who 
supposes  childhood  knows  they  are?  Nor  is  this 
altogether  a  fault.  To  feel  the  sublime  sequence 
of  all  we  did  would  burden  us  as  Atlas  was  bur 
dened  by  holding  up  the  sky.  Life  might  easily 
come  to  be  sober  to  somberness,  which  is  a  thing 
unwholesome  and  undesirable.  Sunlight  must 
have  its  way.  Darkness  must  not  trespass  too  far ; 
and  every  morning  says  to  every  night,  "Thus  far, 
but  no  farther." 

To  many  readers,  Don  Quixote  seems  fantastic, 
and  Cervantes  a  laughter-monger.    Cervantes  had 
suffered    much.     His   life  reads   like   a   novelist's 
299 


300       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

tale.  He  belonged  to  the  era  of  Spenser  and 
Shakespeare;  of  Philip  II  and  William  the  Silent; 
of  Leicester  and  Don  John  of  Austria;  of  The 
Great  Armada  and  the  Spanish  Inquisition;  of 
Lope  de  Vega  and  Cervantes — for  he  was,  in  the 
Hispanian  peninsula,  his  own  greatest  contem 
porary — and  to  this  hour  this  battle-scarred  soldier 
of  fortune  stands  the  tallest  figure  of  Spanish  lit 
erature.  His  was  a  lettered  rearing,  and  a  young 
manhood  spent  as  a  common  soldier.  At  Lepanto 
he  lost  hand  and  arm.  In  five  long,  weary,  and 
bitter  years  of  slavery  among  Algerine  pirates,  he 
held  up  his  head,  being  a  man ;  plotted  escape  in 
dreams  and  waking;  fought  for  freedom  as  a  pin 
ioned  eagle  might ;  was  at  last  rescued  by  the 
Society  for  the  Redemption  of  Slaves ;  sailed  home 
from  slavery  to  penury ;  came  perilously  near  the 
age  of  threescore,  poverty-stricken  and  unknown, 
when,  like  a  sun  which  leaps  from  sunrise  to  noon 
at  a  single  bound,  this  maimed  soldier  sprang 
mid-sky,  impossible  to  be  ignored  or  forgotten, 
and  disclosed  himself,  the  marked  Spaniard  of  his 
era ;  and  on  the  same  day  of  1616,  Cervantes  and 
Shakespeare  stopped  their  life  in  an  unfinished 
line,  and  not  a  man  since  then  has  been  able  to 
fill  out  the  broken  meaning.  This  man  had  not 
wine,  but  tears  to  drink.  Yet  he  jests,  and  the 
world  laughs  with  him ;  though  we  feel  sure  that 
while  his  age  and  after  ages  laugh  and  applaud, 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       301 

Miguel  Cervantes  sits  with  laughter  all  faded  from 
his  face,  and  the  white  look  of  pain  settled  about 
his  lips,  while  tears  "rise  in  the  heart  and  gather 
to  the  eyes."  Tears  sometimes  make  laughter 
and  jest  the  wilder.  Men  and  women  laugh  to 
keep  their  hearts  from  breaking. 

Cervantes  has  ostensibly  drawn  a  picture  of  a 
madman,  and  in  fact  has  painted  a  gentleman. 
What  his  intent  was,  who  can  be  so  bold  as  to  say? 
What  part  of  his  purpose  was,  we  know.  He 
would  excoriate  a  false  and  flippant  chivalry.  Con 
temporaneous  chivalry  he  knew  well;  for  he  had 
been  a  common  soldier,  wounded  and  distressed. 
He  had  seen  what  a  poor  triviality  that  once  noble 
thing  had  grown  to  be.  Institutions  become  effete. 
Age  is  apt  to  sap  the  strength  of  movements  as 
of  men.  Feudalism  and  the  Crusades  had  com 
missioned  the  knight-errant;  and  now,  when  law 
began  to  hold  sword  for  itself,  the  self-constituted 
legal  force — knight-errantry — was  no  longer 
needed.  But  to  know  when  an  institution  has 
served  its  purpose  is  little  less  than  genius.  Some 
things  can  be  laughed  down  which  can  not  be 
argued  down.  A  jest  is  not  infrequently  more 
potent  than  any  syllogism.  Some  things  must  be 
laughed  away,  other  things  must  be  wept  away; 
so  that  humor  and  pathos  are  to  be  ranked  among 
the  mighty  agents  for  reform.  And  one  purpose 
Cervantes  had  was  to  laugh  a  tawdry  knight- 


302       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

errantry  off  the  stage.  In  long  years  of  soldiery,  I 
doubt  not  he  had  grown  to  hate  this  empty  boast, 
and  his  nursed  wrath  now  breaks  out  like  a  vol 
cano.  This  was  his  apparent  purpose — but  who 
can  say  this  was  all  his  purpose?  "King  Lear" 
has  a  double  action.  Mayhap,  Don  Quixote  has 
a  double  meaning.  We  are  always  attaching 
meanings  to  works  of  genius.  But  you  can  not 
tie  any  writer's  utterance  down  to  some  poor  alti 
tude.  Great  utterances  have  at  least  a  half-infinite 
application.  Tennyson  felt  this,  saying — as  we 
read  in  his  son's  biography  of  him — regarding 
explanations  of  his  "Idyls  of  the  King:"  "I  hate 
to  be  tied  down  to  'this  means  that,'  because  the 
thought  within  the  image  is  much  more  than  any 
one  interpretation ;"  and,  "Poetry  is  like  shot-silk, 
with  many  glancing  colors.  Every  reader  will  find 
his  own  interpretation  according  to  his  ability,  and 
according  to  his  sympathy  with  the  poet."  What 
is  true  of  poetry  is  true  of  all  imaginative  literature. 
An  author  may  not  have  analyzed  his  own  motive 
in  its  entirety.  In  any  case,  we  may  hold  to  this, 
Don  Quixote  was  a  gentleman,  and  is  the  first 
gentleman  whose  portrait  is  given  us  in  literature. 
We  have  laughed  at  Don  Quixote,  but  we  have 
learned  to  love  him.  The  "knight  of  the  rueful 
countenance,"  as  we  see  him  now,  is  not  himself 
a  jest,  but  one  of  literature's  most  noble  figures; 
and  we  love  him  because  we  must.  Was  it  mere 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       303 

chance  that  in  drawing  this  don,  Cervantes  clothed 
him  with  all  nobilities,  and  shows  him — living  and 
dying — good,  courageous,  pure;  in  short,  a  man? 
This  scarcely  seems  a  happening.  Seas  have  subtle 
undercurrents.  I  venture,  Don  Quixote  has  the 
same,  and  marks  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman 
in  literature,  since  which  day  that  person  has  been 
a  recurring,  ennobling  presence  on  the  pages  of 
fiction  and  poetry. 

A  gentleman  is  a  comparatively  recent  creation 
in  life,  as  in  letters.  Christ  was  the  foremost  and 
first  gentleman.  After  him  all  gentility  patterns. 
With  the  law  of  the  imagination  we  are  familiar, 
which  is  this :  Imagination  deals  only  with  materials 
supplied  by  the  senses.  Imagination,  in  other 
words,  is  not  strictly  originative,  but,  rather,  ap- 
propriative,  giving  a  varied  placing  to  images  on 
hand,  just  as  the  kaleidoscope  makes  all  its  mul 
tiform  combinations  with  a  given  number  of  pieces. 
Imagination  does  not  make  materials,  is  no  magi 
cian,  but  is  an  architect.  Admitting  this  law,  we 
can  readily  see  how  the  creation  of  a  gentleman 
does  not  lie  in  the  province  of  imagination. 
Homer's  heroes  are  the  men  Homer  knew,  with 
a  poetic  emphasis  on  strength,  stature,  prowess. 
His  era  grew  warriors  and  nothing  else,  and  so 
Homer  paints  nothing  else.  Human  genius  has 
limits.  Man  is  originative  in  character;  and 
poets — "of  imagination  all  compact" — catch  this 


304       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

new  form  of  life,  and  we  call  the  picture  poetry. 
All  civilization,  to  the  days  of  Jesus,  produced  but 
one  character,  so  far  as  we  may  read,  worthy  to 
be  thought  entire  gentleman,  and  this  was  Joseph, 
the  Jew,  premier  of  Egypt.  He  is  the  most  manly 
man  of  pre-Christian  civilizations.  Or  probably 
Moses  must  be  listed  here.  Classic  scholarship 
can  show  no  gentleman  Greece  produced.  Greek 
soil  grew  no  such  flowers  beneath  its  radiant 
sky.  Plato  was  a  philosopher — not  gentleman. 
Socrates  was  an  iconoclast,  but  not  a  manly  man 
and  helpful  spirit.  Greek  heroes  were  guilty  of 
atrocious  and  unthinkable  sins.  Test  them  by  this 
canon  of  Alfred  Tennyson :  "I  would  pluck  my 
hand  from  a  man,  even  if  he  were  my  greatest 
hero  or  dearest  friend,  if  he  wronged  a  woman  or 
told  her  a  lie ;"  and,  so  tested,  where  must  Greek 
heroes  be  classified?  Greece  and  Rome  produced 
heroes,  but  not  gentlemen.  Julius  Caesar  was  the 
flower  of  the  Latin  race.  Nothing  approximates 
him.  Great  qualities  cluster  in  him  like  stars  in 
the  deep  sky.  But  his  ambition  was  like  to  that 
of  Milton's  Satan,  and  his  lust  was  a  bottomless 
pit.  As  a  national  heroic  figure,  Julius  Caesar  is 
dazzling  as  a  sun  at  summer  noon ;  but  as  a  gen 
tleman  he  cuts  poorer  figure  than  Lancelot  or  Sir 
Tristram.  The  gentleman  is  not  an  evolution,  but 
a  creation.  Christ  created  the  gentleman  as  cer 
tainly  as  he  created  the  world. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       305 

Now,  literature  is  what  Emerson  says  genius 
is,  a  superlative  borrower.  The  state  of  a  civiliza 
tion  at  a  given  time  will  gauge  the  poet's  concept. 
He  can  not  pass  beyond  the  world's  noblest  no 
tions  to  his  hour.  If  Greece  and  Rome  produced 
no  man,  settle  to  it  that  Greek  and  Roman  litera 
tures  will  produce  no  man.  Sculptor,  as  Phidias ; 
statesman,  as  Pericles ;  dramatist,  as  /Eschylus ; 
general,  as  Themistocles ;  stern  justice,  as  Aris- 
tides, — Greece  can  show;  and  such  characters  the 
historians,  dramatists,  and  epic  poets  will  delineate 
and  celebrate.  Horace  is  a  looking-glass,  and 
holds  his  genius  so  as  to  catch  the  shadows  of 
men  passing  by.  This  poets  do,  and  can  do  no 
more.  They  are  not  strictly  creative.  We  mis 
take  their  mission.  God  has  somehow  kept  the 
creative  power  in  his  own  possession.  Men  can 
appropriate ;  God  can  create.  So  what  we  find  is, 
that  ancient  literature  never  attempted  depicting 
a  gentleman.  Those  days  had  no  such  persons. 
But  Christ  came  and  set  men  a-dreaming.  He 
filled  men's  souls  to  the  brim  with  expectation 
and  wonder  akin  to  fear  and  anticipation  of  im 
possibilities  ;  and  what  he  was,  men  fondly  and 
greatly  dreamed  they  might  aspire  to  be.  And 
thus  the  gentleman  became  a  prospective  fact  in 
life  and  after  life,  in  literature ;  for  we  think  it 
has  been  fairly  shown  how  literature  produces  no 
type  till  life  has  produced  it  first.  Literature  is 

20 


306       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

not  properly  productive,  but  reproductive ;  not  cre 
ative,  but  appropriative.  As  men  climb  a  moun 
tain  on  a  dark,  still  night,  to  watch  a  sunrise,  so 
the  race  began  to  climb  toward  manhood.  The 
night  was  long,  and  this  mountain  taller  than 
Himalayas;  and  man  slept  not,  but  climbed.  His 
groping  toward  this  sunrise  of  soul  is  the  epic  of 
history.  Dante  knew  not  a  gentleman,  and  could 
not  dream  him  therefore.  Medievalism  learned  to 
paint  the  Madonna's  face,  but  not  manhood's  look. 
Character  is  the  last  test  of  genius.  Man  saw  gray 
streaks  of  dawn,  rimming  far,  ragged  peaks,  and 
still  he  climbed;  and,  on  a  morning,  beheld  the 
sunrise !  And  if  you  will  note,  't  is  Don  Quixote 
standing  on  the  mountain's  crest. 

Some  things  can  be  adequately  represented  in 
marble.  For  "the  Laocoon"  marble  is  probably 
the  best  method  of  expression.  Fear,  superhuman 
effort,  anguish,  brute  strength  mastering  human 
strength, — these  are  the  thoughts  to  be  expressed, 
and  are  brought  out  in  marble  with  singular 
clearness  and  fidelity.  For  some  things  color  is 
a  necessity,  and  marble  would  be  totally  inade 
quate.  "The  Greek  Slave"  may  be  put  in  stone; 
the  bewildering  face  of  a  world's  Christ  can  never 
be  seriously  attempted  in  marble,  the  futility  of 
such  attempt  being  so  apparent.  Color,  lights 
and  shadows  are  essential  to  give  hints  of  deep 
things  of  deep  soul.  Hoffman  must  have  canvas 


THE;  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       307 

and  colors.  You  must  paint  the  Christ.  And 
some  facts  can  not  be  painted.  They  are  abstract, 
and  can  not  be  intimated  by  anything  short  of 
words.  You  can  paint  a  man — Saul  of  Tarsus,  or 
Charlemagne — but  can  not  paint  a  gentleman;  for 
he  represents  no  single  majesty,  but  an  essential 
and  intricate  balance  of  all  useful,  great,  and  noble 
qualities.  He  can  be  painted  only  by  words;  so 
that  literature  is  the  solitary  means  of  making  ap 
parent  the  shadow  of  that  divine  thing,  a  gentleman. 
Don  Quixote  becomes  intensely  interesting, 
then,  as  a  new  attempt  in  creative  genius.  But 
dare  we  think  a  gentleman  could  be  ludicrous 
and  fantastic?  for  this  the  don  was.  We  revolt 
against  the  notion  that  so  gracious  a  thing  could 
be  grotesque.  Yet  is  this  our  mature  thought? 
Do  not  the  facts  certify  that  from  this  world's 
unregenerate  standpoint  manliness  is  grotesque? 
Was  not  Christ  looked  upon  as  mad?  Did  not 
his  ideas  of  manliness  appear  as  nothing  other  than 
fantastic,  when  he  would  substitute  love  for  might, 
meekness  for  braggadocio,  and  purity  of  heart  for 
an  omnipresent  sensuality?  What  were  his  ideals 
of  manhood  but  battling  with  windmills  or  being 
enamored  of  a  myth?  Tested  by  standards  of  this 
world's  make,  his  notions  and  conduct  were  sheerly 
fantastic.  As  recorded  on  one  occasion,  "They 
laughed  him  to  scorn ;"  and  this  they  did  many 
another  time,  covertly  or  openly.  Indeed,  grasp- 


308       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

ing  the  state  of  civilization  as  then  existing,  and 
comprehending  Christ's  non-earthly  idea  of  what  a 
gentleman  was,  we  can  not  be  slow  to  perceive 
how  ludicrous  this  conception  would  be  to  the 
Roman  world.  Tall  dreams  seem  madness.  Ham 
let's  feigned  madness  puzzles  us  even  yet.  Many 
an  auditor  heard  Columbus  with  a  smile  ill-con 
cealed  behind  his  beard.  All  high  ideality  sounds 
a  madman's  babble.  To  see  a  true  life  live  truly 
will  strike  many  as  a  jest,  and  others  as  pathos 
too  deep  for  sobs. 

Don  Quixote  conceived  a  man  ought  to  live 
for  virtue.  To  be  self-dedicated  to  the  help  of 
others;  to  be  courageous  as  an  army  which  had 
never  met  defeat;  to  be  self-forgetful,  so  that  hun 
ger,  pain,  thirst,  fatigue,  become  trifles;  to  have 
love  become  absorbing;  to  fill  the  mind's  unfaith- 
omed  sky  with  dreams  outshining  dawns ;  to  count 
honor  to  be  so  much  more  than  life,  as  that  honor 
is  all  and  life  is  naught ;  to  interpret  all  men  and 
women  at  their  best,  and  so  to  expect  good  and 
not  suspicion  evil;  to  meet  all  men  on  the  high 
level  of  manhood ;  and  to  love  God  with  such 
persistency  and  eagerness  as  that  the  soul's  soli 
tudes  are  peopled  with  him  as  by  a  host, — if  this 
be  not  a  gentleman,  we  have  misconceived  the 
species.  Read  this  history  of  his  early  and  later 
battles  for  right,  and  you  will  not  find  an  impurity 
of  word,  suggestion,  thought.  God's  lilies  are  not 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       309 

cleaner.  I  confess  that  the  knight's  love  for 
Dulcinea  del  Tobosa  moves  me  to  tears.  I  never 
can  smile  or  jest  at  him  when  his  heart  and  lips 
hold  with  fealty  to  an  ideal  love.  His  love  created 
her.  He  found  her  a  clod,  but  flung  her  into  the 
sky  and  made  her  a  star.  Is  not  this  love's  uniform 
history?  Blinded,  not  of  lust  or  ambition,  but 
of  ideality.  Saul  met  Christ  at  noon,  and  was 
blinded  by  his  vision ;  and  would  not  all  brave  men 
covet  blindness  thus  incurred?  And  better  to  be 
blinded,  as  Don  Quixote,  by  a  ravishing  ideal, 
than  to  see,  besotted  in  soul  and  shut  out  from  God. 
That  humorous  figure  astride  lean  Rosinante,  es 
quired  by  pudgy,  sensible  Sancho;  eager  for 
chances  to  be  of  use ;  faithful  to  his  love  as  dawn  to 
sun ;  strong  in  his  desire  of  being  all  eyes  to  see 
distress,  all  ears  to  hear  a  call  for  succor;  sitting 
a  dark  night  through  in  vigil,  tireless,  courageous, 
waiting  for  day  to  charge  on  what  proved  to  be 
fulling  hammers,  making  tumult  with  their  own 
stamping;  or,  again,  asleep  in  the  inn  bed,  fighting 
with  wine-skins  and  dreaming  himself  battling 
with  giants, — this  does  not  touch  me  as  being  hu 
morous  so  much  as  it  does  as  being  pathetic,  un 
speakably  pathetic,  and  manfully  courageous.  I 
see,  but  do  not  feel,  the  humor.  I  have  followed 
Don  Quixote  as  faithfully  as  Sancho  Panza  on  his 
"Dapple ;"  have  seen  him  fight,  conquer,  suffer 
defeat,  ride  through  his  land  of  dreams ;  have  seen 


310       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

his  pasteboard  helmet;  have  noted  melancholy  set 
tle  round  him  as  shadows  on  the  landscape  of  an 
autumn  day;  have  seen  him  grow  sick,  weaken, 
die;  but  have  known  in  him  only  high  dreams, 
attempted  high  achievings;  have  found  him 
honor's  soul,  and  holding  high  regard  for  women; 
have  been  spectator  of  goodness  as  unimpeach 
able  as  heaven,  and  purity  deep,  like  that  which 
whitens  round  the  throne — a  human  soul  given 
over  to  goodness,  and  named,  for  cause,  "Quixada 
the  Good."  And  his  goodness  seems  a  contagion. 
For  two  and  a  half  centuries  since  Cervantes 
painted  this  picture  of  a  gentleman,  literature  has 
given  less  or  more  of  heed  to  similar  attempts ; 
though  as  result,  as  I  suppose,  there  are  but 
two  life-size  pictures  which  unhesitatingly  we  name 
gentlemen  as  soon  as  our  eyes  light  on  them.  Pro 
file  or  silhouette  of  him  there  has  been,  but  of  the 
full-length,  full-face  figure,  only  two.  Shakespeare 
did  not  attempt  this  task.  Aside  from  Hamlet — 
who  was  not  meant  to  sit  for  this  picture,  though 
he  had  been  no  ill  character  for  such  sitting — 
there  is  not  among  Shakespeare's  men  an  intima 
tion  of  such  undertaking.  Would  this  princely 
genius  had  put  his  hand  to  this  attempt,  though, 
as  seems  clear  to  me,  Shakespeare  did  not  conceive 
a  gentleman.  His  ideas  were  not  quite  whitened 
with  Christ's  morning  light  enough  to  have  per 
ceived  other  than  the  natural  man.  Shakespeare's 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       311 

men  are  always  "a  little  lower  than  the  angels ;" 
whereas  a  gentleman  might  fittingly  stand  among 
angels  as  a  brother.  This  one  star  never  swung 
across  the  optic-glass  of  our  great  Shakespeare. 
That  spiritual-mindedness  which  is  life  he  scarcely 
possessed.  This  was  his  limitation.  Spenser 
stood  higher  on  this  mount  of  vision.  He  con 
ceived  and  executed  a  picture  of  pure  womanhood, 
and,  had  he  attempted,  might  have  sketched  a 
wondrous  face  and  figure  of  a  gentleman.  Even 
as  it  was,  he  gave  intimations  of  this  coming 
king.  He  seems  one  who  gathers  fuel  for  a  fire, 
but  never  sets  the  flame.  His  figures  shift,  and 
present  no  central  character  of  manhood  who 
grows  and  furnishes  standard  of  comparison.  Mil 
ton's  genius  was  cast  in  a  cyclopean  mold,  and 
needed  distances  remote  as  heaven  and  hell  to 
give  right  perspective  to  his  figures,  and  his  su 
preme  art  concerns  itself  with  Satan,  and  arch 
angels,  and  God. 

Of  this  ideal  gentleman  we  have  had  growing 
hints.  Literature,  more  and  more,  concern's  itself 
with  spiritual  quantities.  The  air  of  our  century 
is  aromatic  with  these  beautiful  conceptions,  as 
witness  Jean  Valjean,  Dr.  MacLure,  Deacon 
Phoebe,  Sidney  Carton,  Daniel  Deronda,  Donal 
Grant,  Bayard,  Red  Jason,  Pete,  Captain  Moray, 
John  Halifax,  and  Caponsacchi.  Some  of  these 
pictures  seem  more  than  side  views.  But  a  gen- 


312       A  HKRO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

tleman  should  be,  must  be,  nobly  normal.  He  is 
a  balance  of  virtue.  Symmetry  impresses  us  in  him, 
as  when  we  look  at  the  Parthenon.  All  his  powers 
are  in  such  delicate  balance  as  that  they  seem 
capable  of  easy  perturbation,  yet  are,  in  fact,  im 
perturbable  as  stars.  The  gentleman  in  life  is 
becoming  a  common  figure.  We  have  known 
such — so  strong,  quiet,  heroic,  calm,  sure  of  the 
future,  knit  to  God,  big  with  fidelity  and  faith, 
that  they  translated  into  literal  speech  the  holy 
precepts  of  the  Book  of  God.  So  tested,  this  world 
grows  surely  better.  Man  has  lost  in  romantic 
glitter  of  costume  and  bearing,  but  has  gained  im 
measurably  in  manhood.  The  gospel  is  peopling 
the  world  with  men.  To  suppose  God  meant  to 
change  men  to  saints  was  a  misconception.  St. 
Simeon  Stylites  was  that  old  misconception  real 
ized.  We  can  but  honor  him,  so  vast  his  hunger, 
so  noble  his  strife,  so  courageous  his  attitude, 
when  he  shouts,  "I  smote  them  with  the  cross;" 
but  St.  Simeon  did  not  realize  God's  notion. 
Goodness  is  fraternal,  accessible,  genial.  John 
Storm,  in  Hall  Caine's  "The  Christian,"  is  sus 
ceptible  to  the  same  criticism.  He  is  not  balanced. 
He  means  well,  but  is  erratic,  fitful,  lacking  center. 
He  is  like  a  bird  lost  in  storms,  flying  in  circles. 
He  thought  to  be  a  saint,  whereas  Christ  did  not 
come  to  make  saints,  but  to  make  men;  and  the 
sooner  we  realize  that  a  "saint"  or  a  "Christian" 


GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       313 

is  not  the  end  of  the  gospel,  the  better  will  it  be 
for  Christianity.  Christianity  is  God's  method  of 
making  men;  and  Christianity  is  not  an  end,  but 
a  means.  When  God  gets  his  way,  he  wants  to 
have  this  world  populated  with  men  and  women. 
Whether  Caine  meant  John  Storm  for  an  ideal 
Christian  we  can  not  say.  There  is  strength  here, 
as  in  all  he  has  written ;  but  Storm's  lacks  are 
many  and  great.  He  is  enthusiast,  but  flighty. 
He  means  well,  but  is  spasmodic  in  its  display. 
Storm  might  have  grown  into  a  hero  had  he  lived 
longer,  and,  as  a  flame,  leaped  high  at  some  point 
in  his  career.  Both  as  man  and  Christian,  he  dis 
appoints  us.  Red  Jason,  in  "The  Bondman,"  is 
a  worthier  contribution  to  the  natural  history  of 
the  gentleman.  View  him  how  you  will,  he  is 
great.  His  moral  stature  lifts  itself  like  the  mass 
of  a  mountain.  His  nature  seems  a  fertile  field 
seeded  down  to  heroisms,  and  every  seed  germinat 
ing  and  growing  to  maturity.  Jason  has  virtues 
vast  of  girth  as  huge  forest-trees,  but  he  is  scarcely 
companionable.  Glooms  gather  round  him  as 
night  about  a  hamlet  in  a  valley.  He  is  moral, 
imposing,  heroic,  yet  is  there  something  lacking — 
is  it  voice,  self-poise,  what? — lacking  of  being 
quite  a  gentleman.  Nor  was  he  shaped  for  such 
a  role  by  his  creator,  but  was  meant  to  sit  for  the 
portrait  of  a  hero.  And  such  he  is  to  the  point 
of  moving  the  spirit,  as  by  the  lightning's  touch. 


314      A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER 

Goethe  was  not  capable  of  conceiving  a  gen 
tleman.  His  "Wilhelm  Meister"  and  himself  fall 
so  low  in  the  scale  of  worth  as  to  preclude  his 
seeing  so  serene  a  face.  Goethe's  sky  was  clouded, 
and  fine  lines  of  finest  character  are  only  brought 
out  under  unhindered  sunlight.  Manhood  is  a 
serene  thing.  Though  storm-bolts  rain  about  it 
thick  as  hail,  the  quiet  of  deep  seas  reigns  in  it.  And 
Dumas's  men  are  each  a  bon  vivant,  save  the  son  of 
Porthos.  These  dusty  and  bloody  guardsmen  had 
not  enough  moral  fiber  to  fill  a  thimble.  They 
think  the  world  of  men  and  women  a  field  for 
forage.  This  physical  dash  and  courage,  this  gal 
loping  of  steeds,  and  sabers  pummeling  steeds' 
sides,  stands  instead  of  character.  In  "Marius 
the  Epicurean,"  Walter  Pater  has  given,  as  I 
think,  a  true  picture  of  one  who  in  the  Roman 
era  aspired  to  be  a  man.  He  is  cold,  and  in  con 
sequence  barren;  but  such  is  an  accurate  reading 
of  Roman  attempts  at  manhood;  for  ordinary 
Epicureanism  was  fervid  to  sensuality,  and  the 
Stoic  was  frigid.  To  heathen  conception  there 
was  no  middle  ground.  The  warm  color  on  cheek, 
the  morning  in  the  eyes,  the  geniality  in  the  hand, 
the  fervor  at  the  heart,  the  alert  thought,  the  winged 
imagination,  the  sturdy  will,  the  virile  moral 
sense,  the  responsive  conscience,  the  courage  which 
laughed  to  die  for  duty, — these  could  not  be  amal 
gamated.  Heroic  qualities  have  always  been  na- 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       315 

tive  to  the  soul  as  warmth  to  the  south  wind.  All 
history  is  rich  with  tapestries  of  tragic  and  colossal 
heroisms,  so  as  to  make  us  proud  that  we  are  men. 
Heroisms  are  harsh,  but  manliness  is  tender.  And 
in  this  seeming  irreconcilability  lies  the  difficulty 
of  constructing  a  gentleman. 

But  attempts  thicken.  In  our  century  they 
group  together  like  violets  on  a  stream's  bank 
fronting  the  sun  in  spring.  Literary  artists,  know 
ing  how  difficulties  hedge  this  attempt,  hesitate. 
There  are  many  hints  of  the  gentleman.  Let  us  be 
glad  for  that,  seeing  we  are  enriched  thereby.  "Rab 
and  His  Friends"  gives  so  strong  a  picture  of 
stolid  strength  in  love's  fidelity,  which  knows  to 
serve  and  suffer  and  die  without  a  moan  or  being 
well  aware  of  aught  save  love.  And  Dr.  MacLure 
is  a  dear  addition  to  our  company  of  manhood, 
shouldering  his  way  through  Scotland's  winter's 
storm  and  cold  because  need  calls  him;  serving  as 
his  Master  had  taught  him  so  long  ago ;  forgetting 
himself  in  absorbing  thought  for  others;  lonely  as 
a  fireless  hearth  ;  longing  for  friendship  which  would 
not  fail ;  reaching  for  Drumsheugh's  hand,  and  hold 
ing  it  when  death  was  claiming  the  good  physician's 
hand.  We  could  easily  conceive  we  had  been  seated 
at  the  deathbed  of  a  gentleman.  Deacon  Phoebe 
stands  as  a  character  in  Annie  Trumbull  Slosson's 
"Seven  Dreamers,"  a  book  which,  outside  Cable's 
"Old  Creole  Days,"  is  to  me  the  most  perfect  series 


316      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

of  brief  character-sketches  drawn  by  an  American 
author,  and  entirely  worthy  to  stand  by  "A  Window 
in  Thrums,"  and  "Beside  the  Bonnie  Brier  Bush," 
and  "In  Ole  Virginia."  Deacon  Phcebe  has  for 
gotten  himself.  Unselfishness  does  not  often  rise 
to  such  heights.  This  "dreamer"  of  "Francony 
Way"  is  full  brother  to  Sidney  Carton,  born  across 
the  seas.  Self-forgetfulness,  so  beautiful  as  that 
even  name  and  sex  become  a  memory  dim  as  a  dis 
tant  sail  upon  an  evening  sea, — this  must  be  a  sight 
fitted  to  bring  laughter  to  the  heart  of  God.  Deacon 
Phcebe  is  one  trait  in  a  gentleman.  Sidney  Carton 
is  of  the  same  sort,  save  that  the  hero  element 
stands  more  apparent.  His  is  a  larger  field,  a  more 
attractive  background,  thus  throwing  his  figure  into 
clearer  relief.  Deacon  Phcebe  was  the  self-abase 
ment  of  humility,  Sidney  Carton  is  the  supreme  sur 
render  of  love ;  but  the  end  of  both  is  service.  There 
ought  to  be  a  gallery  in  our  earth  from  which  men 
and  women  might  lean  and  look  on  nobilities  like 
Sidney  Carton.  That  beatified  face ;  that  hand  hold 
ing  a  woman's  trembling  hand,  what  time  he  whis 
pered  for  her  comfort,  "I  am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life,"  as  the  crowded  tumbrel  rattled  on  to  the 
guillotine,  and  he  faced  death  with  smile  as  sweet 
as  love  upon  his  face,  and  love  making  a  man  thus 
divine, — this  is  Sidney  Carton,  who  stirs  our  soul 
as  storms  stir  the  seas.  Booaventure,  as  drawn  by 
Cable,  is  of  similar  design.  He  is  unconscious  as 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       317 

a  flower;  but  had  learned,  as  his  schoolmaster- 
priest  had  taught  him,  to  write  "self"  with  a  small 
"s;"  so  an  untutored  soul,  lacerated  with  grief, 
pierced  by  suffering,  gave  himself  over  to  goodness 
and  help,  becoming  absorbed  therein.  Such  is  Bon- 
aventure.  He  was  what  Tennyson  has  said  of  "the 
gardener's  daughter,"  "A  sight  to  make  an  old  man 
young." 

Love  has  learned  to  work  miracles  in  character. 
Rains  do  not  wash  air  so  clean  as  love  washes  char 
acter,  whiting  "as  no  fuller  on  earth  can  white"  it. 
And  how  constantly  manhood  neighbors  with  love 
is  a  beautiful  and  noteworthy  circumstance.  Here 
place  Pete,  in  "The  Manxman."  You  can  not  over 
praise  him.  Some  esteem  him  a  fabulous  character ; 
but  knowing  his  island  and  people  well,  I  feel  sure 
he  is  flesh  and  blood,  though  flesh  and  blood  so 
uncommon  and  superior  stagger  our  faith  for  a 
moment.  It  is  the  glory  of  our  race  that  at  rare 
springtime  it  bursts  into  such  bloom  that  painter 
and  poet  are  both  bankrupt  in  attempting  to  copy 
this  loveliness.  Pete  is  such  an  effort  of  nature. 
His  letters  to  himself,  written  as  from  his  wife,  to 
cover  her  shame  and  desertion,  present  a  spectacle 
so  magnanimous  and  pathetic  as  to  upbraid  us  that 
we  had  never  learned  nobilities  so  sublime.  Love 
made  'him  great.  And  Macdonald,  in  Donal  Grant, 
has  shown  us  a  strong,  pure  soul  of  moral  strength, 
religious  appetencies,  determined  goodness,  of  ele- 


318      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

ration  of  character,  of  strength  and  wisdom,  so  that 
in  his  accustomed  walk  he  might  have  met  Sir 
Percivale  or  Sir  Launfal.  Good,  and  given  over  to 
God,  he  was  found  out  by  love;  and  love  did  with 
him  as  with  us  all — love  glorified  him.  In  his  clean 
life  is  something  sturdy  you  might  lean  on,  as  on 
a  staff,  and  have  no  fear.  So  is  Enoch  Arden  made 
hero  by  love.  In  love,  remembrance,  and  absence 
of  self,  he  is  manhood.  We  have  all  wept  with 
Arden,  finding  our  faces  wet  with  tears,  though  not 
knowing  we  wept.  His  story  never  grows  trite. 
Each  time  we  read,  new  light  breaks  from  this 
character  as  if  it  were  a  sun.  The  sight  of  him 
when  he,  like  a  poor  thief,  looking  in  at  the  window, 

"Because  things  seen  are  mightier  than  things  heard, 
Stagger'd  and  shook,  holding  the  branch,  and  feared 
To  send  abroad  a  shrill  and  terrible  cry 
Which  in  one  moment,  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
Would  shatter  all  the  happiness  of  the  hearth. 

And  feeling  all  along  the  garden  wall, 

Lest  he  should  swoon  and  tumble  and  be  found, 

Crept  to  the  gate,  and  open'd  it  and  closed 

As  lightly  as  a  sick  man's  chamber  door 

Behind  him,  and  came  out  upon  the  waste;" 

and  when, 

"Falling  prone,  he  dug 
His  fingers  into  the  wet  earth,  and  pray'd, — " 

the  sight  of  him  is  as  unforgettable  as  a  man's  first 
look  upon  the  woman  he  loves.  The  poet  was  right. 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       319 

Arden  was  a  "strong,  heroic  soul,"  and  when  he 
woke,  arose,  and  cried,  "A  sail !  a  sail !"  it  was  God's 
nobleman  who  sighted  it. 

"Daniel  Deronda"  and  "John  Halifax,  Gentle 
man,"  may  wisely  be  classed  together  as  attempts 
of  competent  artists  to  sketch  a  gentleman. 
Whether  they  have  failed  in  the  attempt  I  would 
not  make  bold  to  say,  but  for  some  reason  the 
characters  impress  me  as  being  scarcely  adequate. 
Both  faces  are  open,  and  lit  as  by  a  lamp  of  truth ; 
their  lives  are  sweet  as  meadows  scented  with  new- 
mown  hay;  we  become  sworn  friends  to  both  with 
out  our  willing  it ;  they  have  nothing  to  take  back, 
because  words  and  deeds  are  faithful  to  their  best 
manhood;  they  are  strong,  and  women  lean  on 
them,  which,  aside  from  God's  confidence,  is  the 
highest  compliment  ever  paid  a  man.  Deronda  is 
a  man  among  aristocrats,  Halifax  a  man  among 
plebeians  and  commercial  relations;  but  manhood 
is  the  same  quality  wherever  found ;  for  God  has 
made  all  soils  salubrious  for  such  growth.  But 
these  do  not  compel,  though  they  do  charm  us. 
Bayard,  in  "A  Singular  Life,"  may  fall  in  with 
Deronda  and  Halifax.  Tragedy  darkens  at  "the 
far  end  of  the  avenue."  Bayard  is  a  social  reformer 
in  attempt,  though  of  the  safe  and  right  type,  mean 
ing  to  change  men,  that  there  may  be  wrought  a 
change  in  institutions.  He  runs  a  tilt  with  Calvinian 
orthodoxy  as  Methodism  does,  and  loves  God  and 


320       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

his  fellow-men  and  a  good  woman,  and  finds  no 
toil  burdensome  if  he  may  be  of  spiritual  help  and 
healing.  "A  singular  life"  he  lives;  but  singular 
because  it  is  the  gospel  life,  and  he  merits  the  name 
the  slums  gave  him,  "The  Christ-man."  He  is 
helpful,  few  more  so,  and  knows  power  to  stir  us, 
which  in  the  event  is  the  superb  quality  in  char 
acter.  Captain  Moray,  in  "The  Seats  of  the 
Mighty,"  and  Henry  Esmond,  in  "Henry  Esmond," 
are  gentlemen  of  military  mold,  and  we  love  them 
both  because  they  make  for  lordly  inspiration  in  the 
soul.  Esmond  must  always  keep  his  hold  on  men 
as  a  hero.  These  two  soldiers  need  no  one  to  re 
mind  us  they  know  how  to  die;  and  know  that 
other,  larger  thing — how  to  live.  Esmond,  over 
a  long  stretch  of  life  lying  in  our  sight,  walked  ever 
as  a  prince.  Any  national  literature  might  be  glad 
for  one  such  as  he.  Our  imagination  takes  wings 
when  we  think  of  him.  Such  cleanness,  such  lack 
of  self,  such  self-poise  and  firmness,  such  singleness 
of  love  and  devotion,  such  inaptitude  for  anything 
not  noble,  such  tense  heroic  purposes,  such  stalwart 
intention  to  make  himself  a  man !  He  is  greatness, 
and  his  story  to  be  read  as  a  tonic.  He  recruits 
heroisms  in  the  heart,  and  rests  us  when  we  grow 
weary.  Thackeray  is  reported  by  Anthony  Trol- 
lope  to  have  called  his  creation,  Esmond,  "a  prig." 
He  might  better  have  called  him  a  gentleman ;  for 
such  he  is,  or  narrowly  lacks  of  being.  Indeed,  did 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       321 

not  Thackeray  present  another  who  is  altogether 
gentleman,  Esmond  would  be  catalogued  as  this 
ideal  character;  for  he  misses  it  so  little,  if  at  all, 
and  is  by  odds  most  magnetic  of  Thackeray's  cre 
ations.  And  Browning's  "Caponsacchi"  and 
Hugo's  "Valjean"  have  the  true  instincts  of  gentle 
men.  Valjean  redeemed  himself  from  worse  than 
galley  slavery — from  debauched  manhood  to  spir 
itual  nobility,  bewildering  in  holy  audacity  and 
achievement.  Were  there  a  pantheon  for  souls  who 
have  struggled  up  from  the  verge  of  hell  to  stand 
in  the  clear  light  of  heaven,  be  suie  Valjean  would 
be  there.  Volumes  are  requisite  for  his  portrait, 
and  we  have  only  room  for  words!  Of  Capon 
sacchi,  take  the  pope's  estimate  as  accurate,  "Thou 
sprang'st  forth  hero."  And  Pompilia  conceived  him 
rightly,  for  he  minded  her  of  God.  What  farther 
need  be  said  ?  Is  not  that  panegyric  enough  for  any 
man?  Because  he  was  so  strong,  so  fearless,  so 
pure,  so  gifted  with  great  might  to  love,  so  keen  to 
see  Pompilia  was  pure  as  a  babe's  dreams,  and  the 
light  on  his  forehead  falls  from  the  lattices  over 
head — the  lattices  of  heaven — we  love  him.  Had 
his  figure  been  fully  drawn  we  should  have  had  a 
gentleman.  Nor  are  we  sure  he  ought  not  to  be  so 
catalogued;  as  he  is,  we  find  no  fault  in  him.  He 
minds  us  of  the  morning  star. 

Two  characters  in  literature  since  Don  Quixote 
are  life-size  gentlemen,  and  these  are  Colonel  New- 
21 


322       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

come  and  King  Arthur,  as  drawn  by  Thackeray 
and  Tennyson,  men  of  one  era  and  pure  souls.  In 
these  characters  is  evident  deliberation  of  intent 
to  create  gentlemen.  This  article  has  given  no  heed 
to  biography  or  history,  because  these  concern 
themselves  with  truth  as  observed,  and  are  there 
fore  not  imaginative.  What  we  are  considering  is 
an  ideal  person,  fashioned  after  the  pattern  discov 
ered  in  good  lives,  which  happily  grow  more  and 
more  plentiful  as  years  multiply.  Besides,  biog 
raphy  can  never  get  at  the  real  man ;  for  biography 
is  a  story  of  doing,  while  what  we  need  is  a  story 
of  soul.  In  Boswell's  "Johnson"  or  ^n  Anthony 
Trollope's  "Autobiography"  there  is  approach  to 
what  we  care  to  know ;  but  in  the  life  of  Jowett  or 
Tennyson,  though  both  are  admirable  specimens 
of  biography,  what  man  among  us  but  closed  those 
books  with  a  sense  of,  not  dissatisfaction,  but  un- 
satisfaction  ?  What  we  were  really  hungry  for  was 
not  there.  What  Jowett  was,  which  made  him  a 
part  of  the  life-blood  of  English  thought  and  Eng 
lishmen — who  found  that  out?  Some  things  never 
can  be  told,  unless  the  poets  or  prose  dramatists 
tell  them.  Poetry  and  fiction  do  what  history  and 
biography  fail  to  do — make  us  interior  to  a  soul's 
true  life. 

Colonel  Newcome  is  all  gentleman.  He  hangs 
a  curtain  of  silence  over  one  room  in  his  life. 
To  his  wife,  mother  of  his  beloved  Clive,  he  will 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       323 

make  no  reference.  Not  bad,  but  frivolous  and 
weak  and  querulous,  she  was;  but  Colonel  New- 
come  never  whispers  it.  What  had  made  many 
misanthropes,  made  him  a  better  man.  No  bitter 
ness  tainted  his  spirit.  Pure  women  put  him  in  a 
mood  of  worship,  as  they  ought  to  put  us  all.  He 
could,  in  conduct,  if  not  in  memory,  forget  hurts 
and  wrongs,  which  is  one  mark  of  a  large  spirit. 
His  was,  his  biographer  affirms,  "a  tender  and  a 
faithful  heart."  In  him  paternity  and  maternity 
met,  which  is  a  conjunction  we  have  not  given  heed 
to  as  we  ought  in  thinking  on  the  heart.  Mother 
hood  is  in  the  best  fatherhood.  Not  long  since  I 
met  a  minister  who,  on  my  mentioning  a  black  and 
scrawny  village,  said,  with  lovelit  face  and  ringing, 
jubilant  voice,  "O  yes,  that  is  where  my  boy  was 
born!"  How  true  hearts  do  remember!  And  Col 
onel  Newcome  loved  his  son  with  such  sweet  and 
wide  fidelity  as  makes  the  heart  covet  him  for  father. 
All  those  days  of  separation  from  his  son,  he 
thought  of  him  "with  such  a  constant  longing  af 
fection."  And  his  joy  on  seeing  his  son  once  more 
is  the  joy  of  one  getting  home  to  heaven.  "To  ask 
a  blessing  on  his  boy  was  as  natural  to  him  as  to 
wake  with  the  sunrise,  or  to  go  to  rest  when  the 
day  is  over.  His  first  and  last  thought  was  always 
the  child."  He  expects  good  of  people,  will  say 
no  ill  of  any,  can  not  understand  Sir  Brian  New- 
come's  frigid  reception,  and  is  hurt  by  it  as  by  a 


324       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

poisoned  arrow  shot  by  the  hill  tribes  in  far  India ; 
he  can  not  tolerate  foul  thought  or  speech,  burns 
hot  with  righteous  wrath  against  Captain  Costigan 
when  he  sings  a  vile  song,  thundering,  "Silence!" 
'  'We  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  doing  wrong.  We 
must  forgive  other  people's  trespasses  if  we  hope 
forgiveness  of  our  own.'  His  voice  sunk  low  as 
he  spoke,  and  he  bowed  his  honest  head  reverently." 
How  unostentatious  his  bravery,  and  riches  puffed 
him  up  not  a  trifle!  How  alert  to  love,  how  open 
to  enjoyment,  how  young  his  heart  and  how  pure ! 
What  simplicity  and  what  grave  courtesy,  particu 
larly  to  women !  How  wide  those  windows  of  his 
soul  open  toward  heaven !  How  magnanimous, 
how  sad  his  face  and  heart,  how  sensitive  his  nature, 
to  any  lack  of  love  on  dear  Clive's  part!  Though 
to  his  own  heart  he  will  not  admit  such  lack  exists, 
sitting  above  in  his  cheerless  room,  listening  to  his 
son's  merry-making,  that  son  glad  to  be  left  free 
of  his  father's  presence, — how  bravely  he  bore  pov 
erty  when  financial  ruin  came,  not  missing  wealth 
for  himself,  but  for  him  he  loved,  and  how  he 
grieved  for  those  who  had  lost  through  him !  He 
was  not  faultless.  Men  are  not  often  that;  but  his 
anger  rose  from  his  heart.  His  indignation  was 
for  those  he  loved.  We  can  see  him  now,  as  if  he 
lived  among  us  yet.  His  honest,  melancholy  face; 
his  loose  clothes  hanging  on  his  loose  limbs ;  sitting 
silent,  with  his  sad  eyes ;  a  bankrupt,  giving  over 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       325 

his  pension  for  reimbursing  those  who  had  lost  by 
him;  and  his  eagerness  for  wealth  for  love's  sake, 
always  thinking  of  somebody  else, — such  is  this 
gentleman  who  trusts  in  God.  And  thus  simple, 
noble,  unhumiliated : 

"I  chanced  to  look  up  from  my  book  toward 
the  swarm  of  blackcoated  pensioners,  and  among 
them — among  them — sat  Thomas  Newcome.  His 
dear  old  head  was  bent  down  over  his  prayer-book ; 
there  was  no  mistaking  him.  He  wore  the  black 
gown  of  the  pensioners  of  the  Hospital  of  Grey 
Friars.  His  Order  of  the  Bath  was  on  his  breast. 
He  stood  among  the  poor  brethren,  uttering  the 
responses  to  the  psalm.  .  .  .  His  own  wan  face 
flushed  up  when  he  saw  me,  and  his  hand  shook 
in  mine.  'I  have  found  a  home,  Arthur/  said  he; 
for  save  this  he  was  homeless.  As  death  came 
toward  him  his  mind  wandered,  driven  as  a  leaf  is 
driven  by  wandering  winds.  He  headed  columns 
in  Hindustan ;  he  called  the  name  of  the  one  woman 
he  had  loved.  In  death,  as  in  life,  his  thought  was 
for  others,  for  Clive,  dear,  dear  Clive.  He  said, 
'Take  care  of  him  when  I  'm  in  India ;'  and  then, 
with  a  heartrending  voice,  he  called  out,  'Leonore, 
Leonore !'  She  was  kneeling  by  his  side  now.  The 
patient  voice  sank  into  faint  murmurs ;  only  a  moan 
now  and  then  announced  that  he  was  not  asleep. 
At  the  usual  hour  the  chapel  bell  began  to  toll,  and 
Thomas  Newcome's  hands,  outside  the  bed,  feebly 


326       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

beat  time.  And  just  as  the  last  bell  struck,  a  pecu 
liar  sweet  smile  shone  over  his  face,  and  he  lifted 
up  his  head  a  little,  and  quickly  said,  'Adsum !'  and 
fell  back.  It  was  the  word  we  used  at  school  when 
names  were  called ;  and  lo !  he,  whose  'heart  was  as 
that  of  a  little  child,  had  answered  to  his  name,  and 
stood  in  the  presence  of  his  Master." 

Small  wonder  if,  in  India,  they  called  Thomas 
Newcome  "Don  Quixote." 

And  King  Arthur  is  Alfred  Tennyson's  dream 
of  a  gentleman.  Arthur  is  manhood  at  its  prime. 
He  was  strong,  a  warrior,  a  self-made  man,  since 
the  foolish  questioned,  "Is  he  Uther's  son?"  Mys 
tery  and  miracle  mix  with  his  'history,  as  is  accurate, 
seeing  no  life  grows  tall  without  the  advent  of  mir 
acle.  He  is  rescuer  of  a  realm  from  anarchy, 
founder  of  the  Round  Table — an  order  of  knight 
hood  purposed  to  include  only  pure  knights — was 
not  spectacular;  for  we  read  that  others  were 
greater  in  tournament  than  he,  but  he  greater  than 
all  in  battle,  from  which  we  see  how  great  occasions 
called  out  his  greatness.  He  measured  up  to  needs. 
Though  often  deceived,  he  was  optimist,  hoping 
the  best  from  men.  He  counted  life  to  be  a  Chance 
for  service.  There  was  a  hidden  quality  in  him,  as 
when  he,  unknown  to  all,  went  out  from  Camelot  to 
tilt  with  Balin  and  overthrew  him.  His  life  was 
pure  as  the  heart  of  "the  lily  maid  of  Astolat,"  and 
demanded  in  man  a  purity  as  great  as  that  of 


THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  LITERATURE       327 

woman.  His  love  was  mighty,  unsuspicious,  tender. 
He  was  himself  a  king,  born  to  rule,  fitted  to  in 
spire.  No  littleness  sapped  his  greatness.  He  re 
joiced  in  others'  strength,  prowess,  victory.  His 
was  an  eye  quick  to  discover  merit  in  woman  or 
man,  as  in  Lynette.  His  heart  was  tender,  and  a 
cry  for  help  awoke  him  from  deep  sleep.  He  hated 
foulness  as  he  hated  hell.  He  was  like  a  sky,  so 
high,  pure,  open.  Himself  makes  an  era,  for  his 
age  clusters  about  him  as  if  he  were  a  sun  to  sway 
a  system.  Like  Cordelia,  in  "Lear,"  he  is  a  figure 
in  the  background;  yet,  despite  his  actual  slight 
participancy  in  the  "Idyls  of  the  King,"  he  always 
seems  the  one  person  of  the  poem.  What  is  Lance 
lot  matched  with  him,  or  pure  Sir  Galahad?  If 
knighthood  misconceived  King  Arthur  then,  men 
do  not  misconceive  him  now.  A  great  spirit  must 
not  murmur  if  misconceived.  The  world  will  clus 
ter  to  him  hereafter,  himself  being  God's  hand  to 
lift  them  to  his  Alp  of  nobleness.  Arthur's  life  up 
braids  men  for  their  sin.  His  very  purity  alienated 
Guinevere.  Goodness  has  tempests  in  its  sky,  and 
storms  make  morning  murk  as  night ;  and  one  true 
knight,  King  Arthur,  goes  sick  at  heart  to  battle 
with  rebels  in  the  West.  Lancelot  and  Guinevere 
are  fled;  Modred  has  raised  standard  of  rebellion; 
some  knights  are  dead,  slain  in  battle  or  searching 
for  the  Holy  Grail ;  some  have  left  off  knighthood, — 
and  King  Arthur  is  defeated !  Nay,  this  can  not 


328       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

be.  He  rides  into  the  battle,  having  forgiven  Guin 
evere  "as  Eternal  God  forgives" — the  battle  where 

"Host  to  host 

Shocks,  and  the  splintering  spear,  the  hard  mail  hewn, 
Shield-breakings,  and  the  clash  of  brands,  the  crash 
Of  battle-axes  on  shatter's  helms,  and  shrieks 
After  the  Christ,  of  those  who  falling  down 
Look'd  up  for  heaven,  and  only  saw  the  mist." 

And,  the  battle  ended,  Arthur  moans,  "My  house 
hath  seen  my  doom ;"  but  he  has  not  forgotten  God, 
nor  hath  God  forgotten  him.  God  is  his  destination, 
and  he  trusts  him  now  as  in  the  golden  yesterdays : 

"I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  himself  make  pure!" 

And  Arthur  found,  not  sorrow  nor  defeat,  but  vic 
tory  ;  for 

"Then  from  the  dawn  it  seem'd  there  came,  but  faint 
As  from  beyond  the  limit  of  the  world, 
Like  the  last  echo  born  of  a  great  cry, 
Sounds,  as  if  some  fair  city  were  one  voice 
Around  a  king  returning  from  his  wars." 

And  one  of  earth's  gentlemen  was  welcomed  home 
to  heaven. 


XII 

The  Drama  of  Job 

THE  sun  monopolizes  the  sky.  Stars  do  not 
shine  by  day,  not  because  they  have  lost  their 
luster,  but  because  the  sun  owns  the  heavens,  and 
erases  them  as  the  tide  erases  footprints  from  the 
sands.  In  similar  fashion  a  main  truth  monopolizes 
attention  to  the  exclusion  of  subordinate  truths. 
The  Bible's  main  truth  is  its  spiritual  significancy, 
containing  those  ethical  teachings  which  have  revo 
lutionized  this  world,  and  which  are  to  be  redemp 
tive  in  all  ages  yet  to  come.  The  Bible,  as  God's 
Book  for  man's  reading  and  redemption,  has  proven 
so  amazing  as  a  moral  force,  illuminating  the  mind ; 
purifying  the  heart ;  freeing  and  firing  the  imagina 
tion  ;  attuning  life  itself  to  melody ;  peopling  history 
with  new  ideas;  seeding  continents  with  Magna 
Chartas  of  personal  and  political  liberties ;  making 
for  religious  toleration ;  creating  a  new  ideal  of  man 
hood  and  womanhood;  presenting,  in  brief  bio 
graphical  sketches,  perfect  pictures  of  such  men  as 
the  world  has  seen  too  few  of;  and  portraying 
Christ,  whose  face  once  seen  can  never  be  for 
gotten,  but  casts  all  other  faces  and  figures  into 
shadow,  leaving  Him  solitary,  significant,  sub- 

3*9 


330       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

lime, — this  is  the  Bible.  So  men  have  conceived 
the  Scriptures  as  a  magazine  of  moral  might;  and 
the  conception  has  not  been  amiss.  This  is  the 
Bible's  chief  merit  and  superior  function,  and  this 
glory  has  blinded  us  to  lesser  glories,  which,  had 
they  existed  in  any  other  literature,  would  have 
stung  men  to  surprise,  admiration,  and  delight. 
"The  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam"  is  a  pleasure 
simply  as  an  expression  of  sensuous  delight  set  to 
music.  The  poem  is  a  bit  of  careless  laughter,  ring 
ing  glad  and  free  as  if  it  were  a  child's,  and  passing 
suddenly  to  a  child's  tears  and  sobbing.  This  soli 
tary  virtue  has  breathed  into  the  Rubaiyat  life.  The 
Bible  is  a  series  of  books  bound  in  a  single  volume, 
because  all  relate  to  a  single  theme :  history,  biog 
raphy,  letters,  proverbial  philosophy,  pure  idyls, 
lofty  eloquence,  elegiac  poetry,  ethics,  legal  codes, 
memorabilia,  commentaries  on  campaigns  more  in 
fluential  on  the  world's  destiny  than  Caesar's,  epic 
poetry,  lyrics,  and  a  sublime  drama.  The  Bible  is 
not  a  book,  but  a  library ;  not  a  literary  effort,  but 
a  literature.  It  sums  up  the  literature  of  the  Hebrew 
race,  aside  from  which  that  race  produced  nothing 
literary  worthy  of  perpetuation.  One  lofty  theme 
stung  them  to  genius,  their  mission  and  literature 
converging  in  Christ  and  there  ending.  The  Bible 
as  literature  marks  the  book  as  unique  as  a  literary 
fact  as  it  is  as  a  religious  fact;  in  either,  standing 
solitary.  That  lovers  of  literature  have  passed  these 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  331 

surprising  literary  merits  by  with  comparative  in 
attention  is  attributable,  doubtless,  to  the  over 
shadowing  moral  majesty  of  the  volume.  The 
larger  obscured  the  lesser  glory.  But,  after  all,  can 
we  feel  other  than  shame  in  recalling  how  our  col 
lege  curricula  contain  the  masterpieces  of  Greek, 
Latin,  English,  and  German  literature,  and  find  no 
niche  for  the  Bible,  superior  to  all  in  moral  eleva 
tion  and  literary  charm  and  inspiration?  "Ruth" 
is  easily  the  superior  of  "Paul  and  Virginia"  or 
"Vicar  of  Wakefield."  "Lamentations"  is  as  noble 
an  elegy  as  sorrow  has  set  to  words;  the  Gospels 
are  not  surpassed  by  Boswell's  "Johnson"  in  power 
of  recreating  the  subject  of  the  biography;  the 
Psalms  sing  themselves  without  aid  of  harp  or 
organ ;  "The  Acts"  is  a  history  taking  rank  with 
Thucydides ;  and  Job  is  the  sublimest  drama  ever 
penned.  If  these  encomiums  are  high,  they  must 
not  be  deemed  extravagant,  rather  the  necessary 
eulogy  of  truth. 

What  are  the  sublimest  poems  of  universal  liter 
ature  ?  Let  this  stand  as  a  tentative  reply :  JEschy- 
lus's  "Prometheus  Bound/'  Dante's  "Divine  Com 
edy,"  Shakespeare's  "Hamlet,"  Milton's  "Paradise 
Lost,"  and  Job,  author  unknown.  To  rank  as  a 
sublime  production,  theme  and  treatment  must  both 
be  sublime,  and  the  poem  must  be  of  dignified 
length.  Prometheus  has  a  Titan  for  subject;  has 
magnanimity  for  occasion ;  has  suffering,  on  account 


332       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

of  his  philanthropy,  as  tragic  element ;  and  the  bar 
ren  crags  of  Caucasus  as  theater;  and  the  style  is 
the  loftiest  of  y£schylus,  sublimest  of  Greek  drama 
tists.  Perhaps  "CEdipus  Coloneus"  is  nearest  ap 
proach  among  Greek  tragedies  to  the  elevation  of 
"Prometheus  Bound,"  and  Shelley's  "Prometheus 
Unbound"  has  much  of  the  Greek  sublimity  and 
more  than  the  Greek  frigidity.  Bante  is  nearest 
neighbor  to  ^schylus,  though  fifteen  hundred  years 
removed,  and  the  "Divine  Comedy"  has  all  ele 
ments  of  sublimity.  The  time  is  eternal.  The  havoc 
of  sin,  the  might  of  Christ,  the  freedom  of  the  hu 
man  spirit,  the  righteousness  of  God,  the  fate  of 
souls,  are  materials  out  of  which  sublimer  cathedral 
should  be  built  than  ever  Gothic  Christians  wrought 
in  poetry  of  stone.  "Hamlet"  is  the  sublimity  of 
a  soul  fighting,  single-handed,  with  innumerable 
foes,  and  dying — slain,  but  undefeated.  "Paradise 
Lost"  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  the  deep  organ 
music  of  a  stormy  ocean,  so  matchless  and  sublime 
the  melody.  In  theme,  epic ;  in  treatment,  epic ;  in 
termination,  tragic, — which  melts  into  holy  hope 
and  radiant  promise  as  a  night  of  storm  and  fearful 
darkness  melts  into  the  light  and  glory  of  the  dawn 
and  sunrise  when  the  sky  is  fair.  I  can  hear  and 
see  this  blind  old  Puritan,  chanting  the  drama  of  a 
lost  cause  as  a  David  lamenting  for  his  Absalom 
dead.  Milton  is  sublime  in  history,  misfortune, 
range  of  ideas,  warrior  strength,  and  prowess  to  fight 


THE  DRAMA  OP  JOB  333 

and  die  undaunted.  Not  even  his  darkness  makes 
him  sob  more  than  a  moment.  A  rebellion  in 
heaven,  a  war  in  consequence ;  the  flaming  legions 
of  the  skies  led  by  Christ,  God's  Son;  a  conflict, 
whose  clangor  fills  the  vaulted  skies  in  heaven  with 
reverberating  thunders,  ending  in  defeat  for  evil 
which  makes  all  Waterloos  insignificant ;  the  fall  of 
Satanic  legions  from  the  thrones  which  once  were 
theirs,  when,  with  dolorous  cry,  they  stumbled  into 
hell ;  the  counterplot  of  Lucifer ;  the  voyage  across 
the  wastes  "of  chaos  and  old  night;"  the  horrid 
birth  of  Sin;  the  apocalypse  of  Sin  and  Death  in 
Eden;  and  the  Promise,  whose  pierced  hand,  held 
out,  saved  from  utter  ruin  those  who, 

"Hand  in  hand  with  wandering  steps  and  slow, 
Through  Eden  took  their  solitary  way." 

Musician,  instrument,  and  oratorio, — all  sub 
lime.  Last  named,  though  first  written,  is  the 
drama  of  Job,  in  which  all  things  conspire  to  lift 
the  argument  into  sublimity.  Are  seas  in  tempests 
sublime?  What  are  they,  matched  with  Job's 
stormy  soul?  Are  thunders  reverberating  among 
mountains  sublime?  What  are  they  when  God's 
voice  makes  interrogatory?  But  above  all,  God 
walks  into  the  drama  as  his  right  is  to  walk  into 
human  life ;  and  God's  appearance,  whether  at  Sinai 
,  or  Calvary,  or  in  the  weary  watches  of  some  heart's 


334       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOX,K 

night  of  pain,  makes  mountain  and  hour  and  heart 
sublime. 

Thomas  Carlyle  once,  reading  at  prayers  in  a 
friend's  house  from  the  Book  of  Job,  became  ob 
livious  to  surroundings,  and  read  on  and  on,  till 
one  by  one  the  listeners  arose  and  slipped  out  in 
silence,  leaving  the  rapt  reader  alone,  he  holding 
on  his  solitary  way  until  the  last  strophe  fell  from 
the  reader's  lips ;  nor  can  we  wonder  at  him,  for 
such  must  be  the  disposition  of  every  thoughtful 
peruser  of  Job.  As  we  will  not  care  to  lay  Hamlet 
down  till  Fortinbras  is  taking  Hamlet,  with  regal 
honors,  from  the  scene,  so  we  cling  to  Job  till  we 
see  light  break  through  the  clouds,  and  the  storm 
vanish,  and  the  thunder  cease. 

Job  is  a  prince,  old,  rich,  fortunate,  benevolent, 
and  good.  Life  has  dealt  kindly  with  him,  and 
looking  at  his  face  you  would  not,  from  his  wrinkles, 
guess  his  years.  The  great  honor  him ;  the  good 
trust  him;  the  poor,  in  his  bounty  find  plenty;  no 
blessing  has  failed  him,  so  that  his  name  is  a  syn 
onym  of  good  fortune, — such  a  man  is  chief  person 
of  this  drama,  written  by  some  unknown  genius. 
Singular,  is  it  not,  that  this  voice,  from  an  antiquity 
remoter  than  literature  can  duplicate,  should  be 
anonymous?  Not  all  commodities  have  the  firm's 
name  upon  them.  Some  of  the  world's  noblest 
thoughts  are  entailed  on  the  generations,  they  not 
knowing  whence  they  sprang.  He  who  speaks  a 


DRAMA  OF  JOB  335 

great  word  is  not  always  conscious  it  is  great.  We 
are  often  hidden  from  ourselves.  But  our  joy  is, 
some  nameless  poet  has  made  Job  chief  actor  in  the 
drama  of  a  good  man's  life.  "The  steps  of  a  good 
man  are  ordered  of  the  Lord,"  the  Scriptures  say, 
and  such  a  man  was  Job ;  and  the  theme  of  this 
drama  is,  how  shall  a  good  man  behave  under  cir 
cumstances  ruinously  perverse,  and  what  shall  be 
his  fate?  The  theme  has  rare  attraction,  and  ap 
peals  to  us  as  a  home  message,  dear  to  our  heart 
as  a  fond  word  left  us  by  a  departing  friend. 

The  drama  has  prologue,  dialogue,  and  epi 
logue.  The  actors  are  Job's  friends,  Job's  self, 
Satan,  and  God. 

Temporarily,  as  an  object  lesson  to  children  in 
the  moral  kindergarten,  God  gave  prosperity  under 
the  Mosaic  code  as  proof  of  piety.  This  regime  was 
a  brief  temporality,  God  not  dealing  in  giving  vis 
ible  rewards  to  goodness,  else  righteousness  would 
become  a  matter  of  merchandise,  being  quotable 
in  Dun's.  When  we  reason  of  righteousness,  that 
the  good  are  blest  seems  a  necessary  truth ;  yet  they 
do  not  appear  so.  They  are  afflicted  as  others,  "the 
rain  falls  on  the  just  and  the  unjust ;"  may,  more, 
the  wicked  even  seem  favored ;  "he  is  not  in  trouble 
as  other  men ;"  prosperity  smiles  on  him,  like  a 
woman  on  her  favored  lover;  and  the  spirit  cries 
out  involuntarily,  as  if  thrust  through  by  an  angry 
sword,  "How  can  these  things  be  ?"  And  this  bitter 


336       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

cry,  wrung  from  the  suffering  good  man,  is  theme 
for  the  drama  of  Job ;  and  in  this  stands  solitary  as 
it  stands  sublime. 

A  first  quality  of  greatness  in  a  literary  produc 
tion  is,  that  it  deals  with  some  universal  truth. 
"How  can  good  men  suffer  if  God  be  good  ?"  How 
pressingly  important  and  importunate  this  ques 
tion  is !  "Does  goodness  pay  ?"  is  the  commercial 
putting  of  the  question.  Such  being  the  meaning 
of  Job,  how  the  poem  thrusts  home,  and  how  mod 
ern  and  personal  is  it  become !  When  conceived  as 
the  drama  of  a  good  man's  life,  every  phase  of  the 
discussion  becomes  apparently  just.  Nothing  is 
omitted  and  nothing  is  out  of  place. 

Job  sits  in  the  sunshine  of  prosperity.  Not  a 
cloud  drifts  across  his  sky,  when,  without  word  of 
warning,  a  night  of  storm  crushes  along  his  world, 
destroys  herds  and  servants,  reduces  his  habitations 
to  ruins,  slays  his  children,  leaves  himself  in  poverty, 
a  mourner  at  the  funeral  of  all  he  loved.  Then 
his  world  begins  to  wonder  at  him;  then  distrust 
him,  as  if  he  were  evil;  his  glory  is  eclipsed,  as  it 
would  seem,  forever;  and,  as  if  not  content  at  the 
havoc  of  the  man's  hopes  and  prosperity  and  joy, 
misfortune  follows  him  with  disease;  grievous 
plagues  seize  him,  making  days  and  nights  one 
sleepless  pain;  and  his  wife,  who  should  have  been 
his  stay  and  help,  as  most  women  are,  became,  in 
stead  of  a  solace  and  blessing,  querulous,  crying, 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  337 

like  a  virago,  shrilly,  "Curse  God,  and  die!"  Job 
opens  with  tragedy;  Lear,  and  Julius  Caesar,  and 
Othello,  and  Macbeth,  and  Hamlet,  close  with  trag 
edy.  Job's  ruin  is  swift  and  immediate.  He  has 
had  no  time  to  prepare  him  for  the  shock.  He  was 
listening  for  laughter,  and  he  hears  a  sob.  You 
can  fairly  hear  the  ruin,  crashing  like  falling  towers 
about  this  Prince  of  Uz ;  and  you  must  hear,  if  you 
are  not  stone-deaf,  the  pant  of  the  bleeding  runner, 
who  half  runs,  half  falls  into  his  master's  presence, 
gasping,  "Job,  Prince  Job,  my  master — ruin !  ruin ! 
ruin  !  Thy — herds — and  thy  servants — ruin — alas ! 
Thy  herds  are  taken — and  thy  servants  slain — and — 
I — only — I — am — left;"  and  ere  his  story  is  panted 
forth,  another  comes,  weary  with  the  race,  and 
gasps,  "Thy  flocks — are  slain — with  fire — from 
heaven — and  thy  servants — with  them — and  I — 
alone — am — am — "  when  another  breathless  runner 
breaks  that  story  off,  crying,  "Thy  sons — and 
daughters — "  and  Job  turns  his  pale  face,  and  fairly 
shrieks,  "My  sons  and  daughters — what  ?  Say  on !" 
"Thy  sons  and  daughters  were  feasting — and — the 
storm  swept  through — the — sky,  and  crushed  the 
house — and  slew — thy  daughters — and — thy — sons 
— and  I,  a  servant,  I  only,  am  escaped — alone — to 
tell  thee;"  and  Job  wept  aloud,  and  his  grief  pos 
sesses  him,  as  a  storm  the  sea — and  was  very  pitiful 
— 'and  he  fell  on  his  face,  and  worshiped  !  The  apoc 
alypse  of  this  catastrophe  is  genius  of  the  most 


338       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

splendid  order.  Tragedy  has  come !  But  Job  rises 
above  tragedy,  for  he  worshiped. 

In  his  "Talks  on  the  Study  of  Literature,"  Arlo 
Bates,  in  discussing  Abraham  Lincoln's  Gettysburg 
oration,  instancing  this  sentence,  "We  here  highly 
resolve  that  those  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain," 
says,  "The  phrase  is  one  of  the  most  superb  in 
American  literature,  and  what  makes  it  so  is  the 
word  'highly/  the  adverb  being  the  last  of  which 
an  ordinary  mind  would  'have  thought  in  this  con 
nection,  and  yet,  once  spoken,  it  is  the  inevitable 
and  superb  word."  To  all  this  I  agree  with  eager 
ness;  but  submit  that,  in  this  phrase  from  Job,  "I 
only  am  escaped  alone  to  tell  thee,"  the  word 
"alone"  is  as  magical  and  wonderful;  and  I  think 
the  author  of  this  drama  may  well  be  claimed  as 
poet  laureate  of  that  far-off,  dateless  time. 

And  the  good  man's  goodness  availed  him  noth 
ing  ?  What  are  we  to  think  of  Job  now  ?  Either  a 
good  man  is  afflicted,  and  perhaps  of  God,  or  Job 
has  been  a  cunning  fraud,  his  life  one  long  hypoc 
risy,  his  age  a  gray  deception.  Which?  Here  lies 
the  strategic  quality  in  the  drama.  The  three 
friends  are  firmly  persuaded  that  Job  is  unrighteous 
and  his  sin  has  found  him  out.  His  dissimulation, 
though  it  has  deceived  man,  has  not  deceived  God. 
Such  their  pitiless  reasoning;  and  the  more  blind 
they  are,  the  more  they  argue,  as  is  usual;  for  in 
argument,  men  convince  themselves,  though  they 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  339 

make  no  other  converts.  In  Job's  calamity,  all 
winds  blow  against  him,  as  with  one  rowing  shore 
ward  on  the  sea,  when  tides  draw  out  toward  the 
deep  and  winds  blow  a  gale  off  shore  out  to  the 
night ;  and  they  blow  against  Job,  because  he  is  not 
what  he  once  was.  His  life,  once  comedy,  glad  or 
wild  with  laughter  according  to  the  day,  is  now 
tragedy,  with  white  face  and  bleeding  wounds,  and 
voice  a  moan,  like  autumn  winds.  Alas !  great 
prince,  thy  tragedy  is  come!  Tragedy;  but  God 
did  not  commission  it.  This  drama  does  not  mis 
represent  God,  as  many  a  poem  and  many  a  sufferer 
do.  Satan — this  drama  says — Satan  sent  this  ruin. 
God  has  not  seared  this  man's  flesh  with  the  white 
heats  of  lightning,  nor  brought  him  into  penury 
nor  suspicion,  nor  made  his  heart  widowed.  God 
is  dispenser  of  good,  not  evil ;  for  while  an  argument 
is  not  to  be  enforced  against  punitive  justice,  seeing 
justice  is  a  necessity  of  goodness,  yet  we  are  to 
affirm  that  the  notion  of  God  slaying  Job's  children 
(or  anybody's  children,  so  far  as  that  runs),  or  blot 
ting  out  his  prosperity,  is  obnoxious  to  reason  and 
to  heart.  This  drama  perpetrates  no  such  blunder. 
Satan  sent  these  disasters ;  for  with  him  is  evil  pur 
pose.  The  very  nobility  of  Job  stings  him  to  enmity 
and  madness;  for  iniquity  is  his  delight,  and  ruin 
his  vocation  and  pleasure.  A  power  without  man 
working  evil  is  consonant  with  history  and  experi 
ence,  and  to  suppose  this  power  a  person  rather 


340       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

than  an  influence  is  as  rational  as  to  suppose  God 
not  a  barren  principle,  but  a  Person,  fertile  in  love 
and  might  and  righteousness.  In  the  drama  of 
Job,  God  is  not  smirched.  He  is  not  Hurter,  but 
Helper.  In  "Prometheus  Bound,"  Zeus  is  tyrant ; 
in  Shelley's  "Prometheus  Unbound,"  Zeus  is  tyrant 
run  mad.  In  Job,  God  is  majesty  enthroned; 
thoughtful,  interested,  loving;  permitting,  not  ad 
ministering  evil ;  hearing  and  heeding  a  bewildered 
man's  cry,  and  coming  to  his  rescue,  like  as  some 
gracious  emancipator  comes,  to  break  down  prison 
doors  and  set  wronged  prisoners  free.  In  Job,  God 
is  not  aspersed,  a  thing  so  easy  to  do  in  literature 
and  so  often  done.  Here  is  no  dubious  biography, 
where  God  is  raining  disaster  instead  of  mercies. 
To  misrepresent  God  seems  to  me  a  high  crime  and 
misdemeanor — nay,  the  high  crime  and  misde 
meanor  ;  because  on  the  righteousness  of  God  hangs 
the  righteousness  of  the  moral  system  embracing 
all  souls  everywhere,  and  to  misconceive  or  mis 
interpret  God,  sins  against  the  highest  interests  of 
the  world,  since  life  never  rises  higher  than  the 
divinity  it  conceives  and  worships.  The  permissive 
element  in  Divine  administration  is  here  clearly  dis 
tinguished.  Complex  the  system  is,  and  not  sum- 
totally  intelligible  as  yet,  though  we  may,  and  do, 
get  hints  of  vision,  as  one  catches  through  the  thick 
ranks  of  forest-trees  occasional  glimpses  of  sky-line, 
where  room  is  made  by  a  gash  in  the  ranks  of 


THE  DRAMA  OP  JOB  341 

woods,  and  the  open  looks  in  like  some  one  stand 
ing  outside  a  window  with  face  toward  us. 

This  drama  of  goodness  gives  words  and  form 
to  our  perplexity.  How  can  a  good  life  have  no 
visible  favors?  How  are  we  to  explain  prosperity 
coming  to  a  man  besotted  with  every  vice  and  re 
pugnant  to  our  souls,  while  beside  him,  with  heart 
aromatic  of  good  as  spice-groves  with  their  odors, 
with  hands  clean  from  iniquity  as  those  of  a  little 
child,  with  eyes  calm  and  watching  for  the  advent 
of  God  and  an  opportunity  to  help  men, — -and 
calamities  bark  at  his  door,  like  famine-crazed, 
ravenous  wolves  at  the  shepherd's  'hut;  and  pes 
tilence  bears  his  babes  from  his  bosom  to  the  grave ; 
and  calumny  smirches  his  reputation ;  and  his  busi 
ness  ventures  are  shipwrecked  in  sight  of  the  har 
bor;  and  his  wife  lies  on  a  bed  of  pain,  terrible  as 
an  inquisitor's  rack ;  penury  frays  his  garments,  and 
steals  his  home  and  goods,  and  snatches  even  the 
crust  from  his  table, — and  God  has  forgotten  good 
ness?  Here  is  no  parable,  but  a  picture  our  eyes 
have  seen  as  we  have  stumbled  from  a  garret, 
blinded  by  our  tears  as  if  some  wild  rain  dashed  in 
our  faces. 

God  does  not  care ;  more,  God's  lightnings  sear 
the  eyeballs  of  virtue,  tall  and  fair  as  angelhood, — 
this  is  our  agonized  estimate  betimes,  and  we  are 
troubled  lest,  unwittingly  and  unwillingly,  we  ma 
lign  God.  To  an  explanation  of  this  fiery  tangle 


342       A.  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

of  adversity  the  drama  of  Job  sets  itself.  How  pro 
digious  the  task ! 

But  the  poem  breathes  perfume  in  our  faces  as 
we  approach  until  we  think  we  neighbor  with  honey 
suckle  blooms.  What  hinders  to  catch  the  fra 
grance  for  a  moment  ere  we  enter  this  room  of  suf 
fering  lying  a  step  beyond?  "Job"  has  beauty. 
"Job"  has  bewildering  beauty.  This  is  no  hasty 
word,  rather  deliberate  and  sincere.  An  anthology 
from  Job  would  be  ample  material  for  an  article. 
All  through  the  poem,  thoughts  flash  into  beauty 
as  dewdrops  on  morning  flowers  flash  into  ame 
thyst,  and  ruby,  and  diamond,  and  all  manner  of 
precious  stones.  In  reading  it,  imagination  is  al 
ways  on  wing,  like  humming-birds  above  the 
flowers.  You  may  find  similes  that  haunt  you  like 
the  sound  of  falling  water,  and  breathe  the  breath 
of  surest  poetry  in  your  face. 

"Let  the  stars  of  the  twilight  thereof  be  dark: 
Let  it  look  for  light,  but  have  none; 
Neither  let  it  behold  the  eyelids  of  the  morning." 

"There  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest,"  — 

a  beautiful  thought,  which  Tennyson  has  put 
bodily  into  his  "Queen  of  the  May,"  where,  as  here, 
the  words  sob  like  a  child  sobbing  itself  to  sleep 
when  its  mother  is  dead  and  missed. 


THE  DRAMA  OP  JOB  343 

"There  the  prisoners  are  at  ease  together; 
They  hear  not  the  voice  of  the  taskmaster." 

And  to  prisoners  of  hope,  how  healing  such 
words  are,  and  full  of  balm !  But  to  us  who  have 
known  not  the  blinding  grief  of  prisoners,  the  poetry 
of  the  thought  is  "rainy  sweet." 

"My  roarings  are  poured  out  like  water." 
"Men  which  are  crushed  before  the  moth!" 

"For  man  is  born  unto  trouble 
As  the  sparks  to  fly  upward." 

"The  counsel  of  the  froward  is  carried  headlong: 
They  meet  with  darkness  in  the  daytime, 
And  grope  at  noonday  as  in  the  night." 

"For  thou  shalt  be  in  league  with  the  stones-  of  the  field, 
And  the  beasts  of  the  field  shall  be  at  peace  with  thee; 
And  thou  shalt  know  that  thy  tent  is  in  peace." 

Can  one  recall  a  description  of  peace  more 
searching  and  ample,  not  to  say  fraught  with  more 
tender  suggestion? 

"My  brethren  have  dealt  deceitfully  as  a  brook, 
As  the  channel  of  brooks  that  pass  away." 

For  my  part,  I  know  no  cry  that  paints  pain 
with  surer  pathos  than  a  passage  now  to  be  quoted. 


344      A.  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

I  see  and  hear  the  lonely  sufferer,  and  watch  beside 
his  bed  as  if  to  subdue  his  pain. 

"Is  there  not  warfare  to  man  upon  the  earth? 
Are  not  his  days  like  the  days  of  a  hireling? 
As  a  servant  that  earnestly  desireth  the  shadow, 
And  as  a  hireling  that  looketh  for  his  wages? 
So  am  I  made  to  possess  months  of  vanity, 
And  wearisome  nights  are  appointed  to  me. 
When  I  lie  down,  I  say, 
When  shall  I  arise?     But  the  night  is  long; 
And  I  am  full  of  tossings  to  and  fro  until  the  dawn 
ing  of  the  day. 

My  days  are  swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle, 
And  are  spent  without  hope." 

"I  would  not  live  alway: 
Let  me  alone;  for  my  days  are  vanity." 

In  a  passage  now  to  be  adduced  is  sublimity 
passing  the  sublimity  of  Milton  the  sublime : 

"God,  which  removeth  the  mountains,  and  they  know 

it  not 

When  he  overturneth  them  in  his  anger; 
Which  shaketh  the  earth  out  of  her  place, 
And  the  pillars  thereof  tremble; 
Which  commandeth  the  sun,  and  it  riseth  not; 
And  sealeth  up  the  stars; 
Which  alone  stretcheth  out  the  heavens, 
And  treadeth  upon  the  waves  of  the  sea; 
Which  maketh  Arcturus,  Orion,  and  the  Pleiades, 
And  the  chambers  of  the  South; 
Which  doeth  great  things,  past  finding  out; 
Yea,   marvelous  things  without  number: 
He  breaketh  me  with  a  tempest." 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  345 

Before  words  like  these  one  may  well  stand 
dumb,  with  the  finger  of  silence  on  the  lips.  Hear 
Job  wail : 

"Now  my  days  are  swifter  than  a  post: 
They  are  passed  away  as  the  swift  ships, 
As  the  eagle  that  swoopeth  on  the  prey, 
My  soul  is  weary  of  my  life." 

"Thou  shalt  forget  thy  misery: 
Thou  shalt  remember  it  as  waters  that  are  passed  away." 

"He  poureth  contempt  upon  princes, 
And  looseth  the  belt  of  the  strong; 
He  discovereth  deep  things  out  of  darkness, 
And  bringeth  out  to  light  the  shadow  of  death." 

This  "bringeth  out  to  light  the  shadow  of  death" 
appears  to  me  as  bold  and  transfiguring  a  figure  as 
is  to  be  found  in  literature.  It  is  majesty  itself. 

"They  grope  in  the  dark  without  light, 
And  he  maketh  them  to  stagger  like  a  drunken  man." 

"Wilt  thou  harass  a  driven  leaf, 
And  wilt  thou  pursue  the  dry  stubble?" 

"I  am  like  a  garment  that  is  moth-eaten." 

"He  cometh  forth  like  a  flower,  and  is  cut  down; 
He  fleeth  also  as  a  shadow,  and  continueth  not." 

"He  breaketh  me  with  breach  upon  breach; 
He  runneth  upon  me  like  a  giant." 


.346       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

"Aforetime  I  was  as  a  tabret." 

"His  strength  shall  be  hunger-bitten, 
And  calamity  shall  be  ready  at  his  side." 

"My  purposes  are  broken  off." 

"His  remembrance  shall  perish  from  the  earth, 
And  he  shall  have  no  name  in  the  street." 

"Ye  break  me  in  pieces  with  words." 

How  vigorously  descriptive  this  is  of  what  many 
a  man  has  endured  from  hammering  speech  of 
violent  men ! 

"They  waited  for  me  as  for  the  rain." 
"He  overturneth  the  mountains  by  the  roots." 
"Out  of  the  north  cometh  golden  splendor." 
"God  hath  upon  him  terrible  majesty." 

"Deck  thyself  now  with  excellency  and  dignity; 
And  array  thyself  with  honor  and  majesty." 

Has  not  this  putting  all  the  strength  and  beauty 
of  a  Shakespearean  couplet?  Shakespeare  uses 
such  figures  as  'this  often,  and  in  them  he  is  his 
greater  self.  His  is  the  splendor  of  imagination 
and  clearness  of  vision  of  a  prince  of  poets.  Time 
hastes.  This  task  is  decoying.  To  cease  is  a  hard- 


DRAMA  OF  JOB  347 

ship ;  for  "Job"  lends  itself  with  such  wealth  to  these 
nobler  passages  as  to  urge  on  our  quest.  Whole 
chapters  are  poems,  rich  as  if  carven  on  blocks  of 
solid  gold.  They  blaze  with  splendor.  But  the 
drama  bears  on  its  way  like  an  invading  army,  and 
will  not  wait. 

Disaster  has  overtaken  a  good  man  with  its 
utter  demolition ;  but,  as  has  been  shown,  the  pro 
logue  of  the  drama  settles  the  paternity  of  the  dis 
aster.  Evils  come,  but  not  necessarily  from  God. 
In  a  complex  moral  system,  God  has  found  it  good 
to  administer  by  general  rather  than  by  special 
laws,  and  their  operation  does  not  work  exact  jus 
tice  to  either  wickedness  or  purity.  God's  adminis 
tration  being  an  eternal  one,  he  dares  take  scope 
to  bring  rewards  to  goodness  and  to  evil.  God  does 
not  need  to  haste.  He  has  eternity,  and  dares 
therefore  be  pacific  and  not  perturbed.  Haste 
savors  of  lack  in  time.  God  must  not  haste.  That 
he  could  pour  swift  retribution  on  the  head  of  of 
fending  men,  we  dare  not  doubt.  That  he  does  not 
is  patent.  Another  scene  is  plainly  the  purpose  of 
God.  He  has  a  scene  behind  a  scene.  If  this  world 
were  an  end,  there  is  rank  and  unforgivable  in 
justice  done.  Men  have  not  been  dealt  fairly  with, 
and  may,  with  legitimacy,  make  acrimonious  reply ; 
but  we  are  clearly  taught  that  this  world  is  a  stage 
for  the  display  of  character,  not  for  its  reward,  and 
the  next  scene  will  be  for  the  reward  of  character, 


348       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

and  not  for  its  display.  God  will  recompense,  but 
we  are  not  told  God  does  recompense.  Such  is  the 
lofty  argument  of  the  drama,  and  may  be  named  as 
major  theme. 

Prince  Job,  smitten  from  his  throne  of  prosper 
ity  and  influence  into  a  pit  of  ignominy,  in  his 
abasement  cries,  "Wherefore  do  the  wicked  live, 
become  old,  yea,  are  mighty  in  power?"  And  in 
his  conscious  integrity  he  might  well  shrill  a  cry 
to  his  own  breaking  heart.  Job  is  sure  (some  things 
calamity  reveals)  integrity  is  not  awarded  according 
to  its  character  and  worth,  while  his  three  friends 
see  in  Job's  downfall  a  disclosure  of  his  wickedness. 
They  urge  him  to  repent.  They  think  there  can  be 
no  arguing  against  doom.  God  has  smitten  him 
for  his  sins, — this  they  all  agree,  and  say  no  other 
thing.  Poor  Job !  His  friends  consider  his  hypoc 
risy  proven,  and  his  wife  has  become  foreigner  to 
him  in  his  day  of  disaster;  disease  climaxes  his 
calamities,  and  he  half  says,  half  moans :  "When  I 
lie  down,  I  say,  When  shall  I  arise  and  the  night 
be  gone  ?  and  I  am  full  of  turnings  to  and  fro  until 
the  dawning  of  the  day.  My  days  are  swifter  than 
a  weaver's  shuttle,  and  are  spent  without  hope.  I 
will  speak  in  the  anguish  of  my  spirit.  I  will  con 
fess  the  bitterness  of  my  soul."  Surely  his  affliction 
breaks  like  some  desperate  sea,  and  he  is  as  a 
sailor  hurled  on  jagged  rocks,  bleeding,  half- 
drowned,  shivering  cold,  and  again  the  storm-waves 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  349 

leap  like  mad  tigers  at  his  throat,  and  the  sailor 
scarce  knows  well  how  to  beat  one  stroke  more 
against  the  sea.  This  is  Job.  He  is  bewildered. 
His  first  cry  is  as  of  one  whose  reason  staggers. 
His  face,  his  voice,  his  words — all  are  unnatural. 
To  hear,  I  would  not  know  nor  think  this  was 
Prince  Job.  Strangely,  sadly,  terribly  changed  he 
is  when  he  cries :  "Let  the  day  perish  wherein  I 
was  born.  Let  that  day  be  darkness.  Let  dark 
ness  and  the  shadow  of  death  stain  it.  Let  the 
blackness  of  the  day  terrify  it.  As  for  that  night, 
let  darkness  seize  upon  it.  Let  it  not  be  joined 
unto  the  days  of  the  year.  Let  it  not  come  into 
the  number  of  the  months.  Lo,  let  that  night  be 
solitary ;  let  no  joyful  voice  come  therein.  Let  the 
stars  of  the  twilight  thereof  be  dark;  let  it  look 
for  light,  but  have  none ;  neither  let  it  see  the 
dawning  of  the  day."  "Wherefore  is  light  given 
to  him  that  is  in  misery;  and  life  unto  the  bitter 
in  soul,  which  long  for  death,  but  it  cometh  not; 
and  dig  for  it  more  than  for  hid  treasures ;  which 
rejoice  exceedingly,  and  are  glad,  when  they  can 
find  the  grave?  For  the  thing  which  I  greatly 
feared  is  come  upon  me.  I  was  not  in  safety, 
neither  had  I  rest,  neither  was  I  quiet;  yet  trouble 
came."  Alas,  Prince  Job,  your  voice  is  a-sob  with 
tears ;  and  we  had  not  known  it  was  he !  But  did 
grief  ever  tell  its  beads  with  deeper  music?  Has 
not  this  bankrupt  prince  given  sorrow  words  for- 


350       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

ever?  His  pain  and  grief  are  unutterable  in  sad 
ness,  yet  is  he  not  alone.  Multitudes  have  taken 
up  his  lament.  There  is  no  pathos  deeper  than  his, 
"digging  for  death  more  than  for  hid  treasures." 
I  fear  Job's  grief  unmans  him,  and  he  hath  gone 
mad  with  Lear.  Pray,  think  you  he  is  not  as  pas 
sionate,  gray  Lear,  mad  as  the  stormy  night?  It 
seems  so,  but  is  not  so.  He  is  baffled.  He  is  a 
good  man,  but  blinded  for  a  moment,  as  a  light 
ning-flash  stupifies  the  sight.  His  cry  is  the  cry 
wrung  from  the  white  lips  of  pain  through  the 
ages.  We  can  not  blame  him,  but  only  be  pitiful 
to  him.  His  disasters  are  so  varied  and  so  ter 
rible;  but  we  feel  sure  of  him,  and  if  he  have 
lost  footing  and  sight,  'twill  not  be  for  long. 

But  there  he  sits  in  ashes,  fit  to  make  marble 
weep;  and  his  three  friends — stately,  aged,  gray, 
friends  of  many  years — come  to  comfort  him;  for 
which  service  he  has  need,  sore  need.  There  are 
times  when  a  heart  is  hungry  for  tenderness,  when 
a  word  of  love  would  be  a  gift  of  God,  when  a 
touch  of  some  tender  hand  would  be  a  consolation 
wide  as  heaven;  and  such  a  word  and  hand  had 
melted  Job  to  tears,  and  his  tears  would  have  done 
him  good,  as  prayer  does.  Sometimes  tears  clear 
the  throat  and  heart  of  sobs  that  choke.  But 
these  men  were  inquisitors  rather  than  comforters ; 
they  were  philosophers,  when  they  ought  to  have 
been  men.  They  sat  in  silence  seven  days,  but. 


THE;  DRAMA  OF  JOB  351 

should  have  maintained  their  quiet.  These  men 
lacked  imagination,  which  is  a  fatal  omission  from 
character;  for  they  who  came  to  comfort,  became 
polemic,  pitiless,  belligerent,  and  their  voices  sound 
metallic.  If  a  child  had  crept  toward  the  afflicted 
prince,  and  had  reached  out  a  pitiful  hand,  and, 
with  childish  treble,  had  said,  "Poor  Job ;  poor 
Job !"  that  word  'had  salved  his  wounds,  and  helped 
him  through  his  morass  of  pain  and  fear  and 
doubt.  But  instead,  his  friend  Eliphaz  hectors  his 
pain  by  saying,  in  stately  fashion,  "Thy  words 
have  upholden  him  that  was  failing,  and  thou  hast 
strengthened  the  feeble  knees ;  but  now  it  has  come 
upon  thee,  and  thou  faintest."  Shame,  Eliphaz! 
What  a  bungler !  A  child  had  known  better.  What 
ails  you?  Do  you  not  know  this  man  needs  ten 
derness,  and  not  lectures  and  disquisitions  in 
moralities  ?  Can  you  not  see  his  heart  is  breaking, 
and  his  eyes  turn  to  you  as  if  he  were  watching 
for  the  coming  of  some  succor  infinite?  Have  you 
no  balm  with  fragrance?  But  he  hears  us  not, 
or  heeds  us  not,  but  measures  out  his  periods  as 
if  he  were  orator  at  some  state  occasion :  "Behold, 
happy  is  the  man  whom  God  correcteth :  therefore 
despise  not  thou  the  chastening  of  the  Almighty. 
Lo,  this,  we  have  searched  it,  so  it  is ;  hear  it,  and 
know  thou  it  for  thy  good."  Pray,  is  this  friend 
mad,  or  foe,  or  fool,  that  he  knows  no  better  than 
to  pour  comtempt  on  distress?  Will  not  a  foe, 


352       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI,K 

even,  have  pity  on  an  enemy  wounded  and  bleed 
ing  and  prostrate  in  the  dust?  But  this  man  thinks 
he  has  a  mission  to  teach  an  overthrown  prince 
a  lesson,  harsh,  cold,  unrelenting,  lacking  senti 
ment.  Job's  pitiful  affliction  is  enough  to  lift  such 
a  man  into  pity.  No,  no ;  he  urges  his  lesson,  like 
some  dull  schoolmaster  who  will  instruct  his  pupil 
while  he  knows  him  dying. 

Job's  broken  voice  calls,  "O  that  my  grief 
were  thoroughly  weighed,  and  my  calamity  laid 
in  the  balances  together.  Is  my  strength  the 
strength  of  stones,  or  is  my  flesh  brass?  I  will 
speak  in  the  anguish  of  my  spirit;  I  will  com 
plain  in  the  bitterness  of  my  soul.  So  that  my 
soul  chooseth  strangling,  and  death  rather  than  my 
life.  I  loathe  it ;  I  would  not  live  alway ;  for  my 
days  are  vanity.  To  him  that  is  afflicted,  pity 
should  be  shewn  from  his  friend."  And  to  this 
pitiful  appeal  for  considerate  judgment,  and  for  a 
word  or  look  of  compassion,  another  friend  finds 
answer,  with  cruelty  like  the  touch  of  winter  on 
an  ill-clad  child :  "If  thou  wouldst  seek  unto  God 
betimes,  and  make  thy  supplication  to  the  Al 
mighty  ;  if  thou  wert  pure  and  upright ;  surely  now 
he  would  awake  for  thee,  and  make  the  habitation 
of  thy  righteousness  prosperous."  What  winter 
wind  is  bitter  and  biting  as  these  words? 

Job's  friends  now  are  his  worst  calamities. 
They  are  thrusting  into  his  naked  and  diseased 


DRAMA  OP  JOB  353 

flesh  a  cruel  spear,  and  into  his  heart  a  sword.  Are 
these  men  clad  in  steel  that  they  are  so  imper 
vious  to  pity?  And  yet,  if  we  pause  to  consider, 
this  dramatist  has  not  spoken  rashly  nor  unnat 
urally;  for  we  can  recall  that  often,  often,  when 
the  window-panes  of  a  life  are  smoky  with  the 
breath  of  suffering,  just  such  criticisms  as  these 
are  offered  voluminously.  We  are  hard  folks. 
There  seems  a  strain  of  cruelty  in  our  blood  which 
sometimes  gloats  over  suffering  as  at  a  carnival. 
Were  these  men  vultures,  that  wait  to  watch  with 
joy  a  wounded  soldier  die?  Of  what  is  our 
nature  builded,  that  we  are  cruel  as  the  unrea 
soning  beasts?  These  harsh  friends  are  voices 
from  our  own  pitiless  hearts,  and  ought  to  make 
us  afraid. 

There  are  three  friends  in  number,  but  there 
is  one  voice  and  two  echoes, — three  men  debating 
with  one  moaning  sufferer,  and  each  saying  the 
same  thing.  Had  only  one  of  them  been  present,  all 
the  three  said  had  been  spoken.  These  men  were 
poor  in  ideas ;  for  amongst  the  three  is  only  one 
thought,  as  if  they  had  one  sword  among  them, 
which  betimes  each  one  brandishes.  Besides,  they 
have  a  polemic's  pride;  they  are  eager  to  make 
out  a  case,  and  thirst  to  prove  poor  Job  a  sinner. 
One  of  them  (it  might  as  well  be  any  other  of 
them)  runs  on :  "The  hypocrite's  hope  shall  perish : 
whose  hope  shall  be  cut  off,  and  whose  trust  shall 
23 


354       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

be  a  spider's  web.  Behold,  God  will  not  cast  away 
a  perfect  man ;  but  the  dwelling-place  of  the  wicked 
shall  come  to  naught."  This  is  savage  cruelty, 
pouring  nitric-acid  into  sword-gashes.  Nothing 
moves  your  plain  man ;  for  he  delights  in  making 
people  wince.  He  is  not  angry,  but  natural,  and 
his  naturalness  is  something  worse  than  the 
choleric  man's  anger.  He  is  saying:  "Ah,  Job, 
see  now — comfort,  comfort?  Why  the  house  of 
the  wicked  shall  come  to  naught."  And  has  not 
Job's  house  been  splintered  by  the  tempest?  And 
this  friend  of  many  years  is  saying,  "Hypocrite !" 
But  this  word  recalls  Job  to  himself.  He  rises 
above  his  pain,  scarcely  feeling  the  twinges.  His 
thought  is  drawn  away  from  his  physical  calamity, 
and  that  is  a  good  anodyne  for  torture.  His  char 
acter  is  attacked,  and  he  must  run  to  its  succor 
as  he  would  to  the  rescue  of  wife  or  child.  Now 
Job  ceases  sobbing,  and  becomes  attorney  for  him 
self.  He  pleads  his  cause  with  full  knowledge 
of  his  own  heart.  He  therefore  speaks  ex  cathedra 
so  far.  Job  is  on  the  defensive — not  against  God, 
but  against  men.  His  "tongue  is  as  the  pen  of 
a  ready  writer."  Job  is  himself  again.  His  per 
turbation  is  passed  as  a  cloud  swims  across  the 
sky. 

Job  is  the  misjudged  man,  than  which  few 
things  are  harder  to  bear.  That  enemies  miscon 
strue  your  motives  and  misjudge  your  conduct  is 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  355 

to  be  expected,  though  even  then  the  spirit  is  lac 
erated;  but  when  friends  misjudge  us,  our  pain 
seems  more  than  we  can  bear.  This  was  Job's  case. 
His  familiar  friends  become  His  accusers,  rasp 
ing  such  words,  "  How  much  more  abominable 
and  filthy  is  man  which  drinketh  iniquity  like 
water!"  and  Job's  cry  crosses  the  centuries  and 
reaches  our  ears  this  day,  "Have  pity  upon  me, 
have  pity  upon  me,  O  ye  my  friends ;  for  the  hand 
of  God  hath  touched  me!"  Old  Lear's  cry,  "Stay 
a  little,  Cordelia,"  is  no  more  pitiful  than  this 
strong  man  reaching  for  a  hand  and  finding  none, 
and  pleading  for  sympathy,  and  pleading  in  vain. 
I  see  him  sitting,  with  his  gray  beard  blowing 
about  him  like  a  puff  of  fog;  I  hear  him  when 
his  pitiful  voice  intones  its  grief  as  if  it  were  a 
chant;  I  see  the  pleading  in  his  eyes,  and  it  fills 
my  breast  with  heart-break.  You  who  love  great 
delineations  of  passion,  what  think  you  of  our 
dramatist's  vision  of  Job?  You  who  count  King 
Lear  among  the  demigods  'of  creative  art,  what 
think  you  of  this  Lear's  older  brother?  His  nature 
is  so  deep  we  can  not  fling  plummet  to  its  bottom. 
Lear  was  weak  and  wrong;  but  Job,  with  all  his 
grief  upon  him,  like  a  cloud  upon  a  mountain's 
crest — Job  has  violated  no  propriety  of  man  or 
God,  so  far  as  we  have  seen,  and  his  cry  fills  the 
desert  on  whose  verge  he  sits,  and  clamors  like  the 
winds  on  stormy,  winter  nights. 


356       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

Job,  misjudged,  has  the  mercy  of  conscious  in 
tegrity.  Himself  rises  to  his  own  vindication,  a 
course  just  and  compatible  with  sincerity  and 
modesty.  You  will  misjudge  Job  if  you  think  him 
egotist.  He  is  rather  one  who  knows  himself, 
and  feels  sure  of  his  purity  in  motive;  has  self- 
respect  therefore — a  hard  thing  for  a  soul  to  have, 
and  the  possession  of  which  is  a  benediction.  To 
know  we  meant  well,  to  be  able  to  justify  us  to 
ourselves,  is  next  in  grace  to  being  justified  of 
God;  for  next  to  Him,  self  is  the  most  exacting 
master  and  judge.  He  feels  misjudged,  knows 
these  men  have  misinterpreted  him,  being  de 
ceived  by  his  calamities,  and  he  therefore  is  thrown 
on  the  defensive,  and  becomes  his  own  attorney, 
pleading  for  his  life,  "Pray  you,  my  friends,  do 
not  misjudge  me,"  is  his  tearful  plea,  while  they 
press  their  cruel  conclusions  as  a  phalanx  of  spears 
against  his  naked  breast.  This  conception  will  clear 
Job  of  the  blame  of  being  self-righteous.  I  do  not 
find  that  in  his  utterances;  but  do  find  sturdy 
self-respect,  and  assertion  of  pure  motive  and  pure 
action ;  for  his  argument  proceeds  thus :  "I  know 
my  heart ;  I  know  all  my  purposes ;  I  meant  right, 
and  tried  to  do  right.  You  think  me  hypocrite. 
I  pray  you  rectify  your  judgment,  since  neither  in 
intent  nor  yet  in  execution  have  I  been  other  than 
I  seemed,  and  who  can  bring  accusations  against 
my  doings?  God  breaketh  me  with  a  tempest,  yet 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  357 

will  I  cry  to  him,  Do  not  condemn  me:  show 
me  wherefore  thou  contendest  with  me.  I  call  on 
God  to  vindicate  me,  who  knoweth  my  life  to  the 
full.  Will  God  break  a  leaf,  driven  to  and  fro  by 
the  wind?  Though  to  you,  my  friends,  I  seem 
smitten  of  God,  your  logic  is  wrong.  I  am  not 
vile.  O  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  Him!  I 
would  order  my  cause  before  him,  seeing  he  knows 
the  way  that  I  take."  Job  is  himself  confounded 
by  his  calamity,  so  that  he  does  not  see  clearly; 
finding  no  reason  why  God  should  afflict  him,  he 
being  as  he  is  and  as  he  has  been,  just  in  pur 
pose;  for  Job  had  yet  to  learn  that  lesson  he  has 
taught  us  all;  namely,  that  not  God,  but  Satan, 
sent  his  disaster.  He  thought  God  was  sowing 
ruin,  as  the  rest  thought ;  whereas  God  was  letting 
Satan  work  his  evil  way,  while  God  was  to  vindicate 
his  servant  by  an  apocalypse  of  himself.  Job, 
though  bewildered  as  to  the  meaning  of  his  trou 
bles,  asserts  his  innocency;  and  as  he  presents  his 
case,  his  sky  clears,  and  his  voice  strengthens, 
and  his  argument  rises  in  its  eloquence,  sonorous 
as  the  sea :  "Know  now  that  God  hath  overthrown 
me.  He  hath  fenced  my  way,  that  I  can  not  pass. 
He  hath  stripped  me  of  my  glory,  and  taken  the 
crown  from  my  head.  His  troops  come  together, 
and  raise  up  their  way  against  me,  and  encamp 
round  about  my  tabernacle.  My  kinsfolk  have 
failed,  and  my  familiar  friends  have  forgotten  me. 


358       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

They  that  dwell  in  mine  house,  and  my  maids, 
count  me  for  a  stranger:  I  am  an  alien  in  their 
sight.  I  called  my  servant,  and  he  gave  me  no 
answer.  My  breath  is  strange  to  my  wife,  though 
I  entreated  for  my  children's  sake  of  mine  own 
body.  Yea,  young  children  despised  me;  I  arose, 
and  they  spake  against  me.  All  my  inward  friends 
abhorred  me:  and  they  whom  I  loved  are  turned 
against  me.  My  bone  cleaveth  to  my  skin  and  to 
my  flesh.  Have  pity  upon  me!  Why  do  ye  per 
secute  me  as  God  ?  Have  pity  upon  me !"  If  in 
literature  there  is  a  more  passionate  passage  to 
incarnate  in  words  a  life  wholly  bereft  and  utterly 
alone,  I  know  not  of  it.  CEdipus  Coloneus  had 
Antigone,  and  King  Lear  had  the  king's  fool  and 
loyal  Kent,  and  Prometheus  had  visitors  betimes, 
who  brought  him  balm  of  sympathy;  but  Job's 
servants  will  not  obey  him,  and  little  children  make 
sport  of  him,  and  his  wife  turns  away  from  him, 
and  will  not  hear  his  sobbing  words,  nor  hear  him 
as  he  calls  the  names  of  their  children  whom  he 
loved.  Tragic  Job !  Not  Samson,  blind  and  jeered 
at  by  the  Philistine  populace  in  Dagon's  temple, 
is  sadder  to  look  upon  than  Job,  Prince  of  Uz, 
in  the  solitude  of  his  bereavement.  This  old 
dramatist,  as  I  take  it,  had  himself  known  some 
unutterable  grief,  and  out  of  the  wealth  of  his 
melancholy  recollections  has  poured  tears  like 
rain.  He  has  no  master  in  pathos. 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  359 

This  lament  of  Job  is  one  aspect,  and  but  one; 
for  as  he  rises  toward  God,  his  calamities  seem 
slipping  away  from  him  as  night's  shadows  from 
the  hills  at  dawn.  God  knows  his  case,  and  Job, 
conscious  of  his  integrity,  looks  God  in  the  face, 
and  his  voice  lifts  into  triumph,  passing  out  of 
complaint  and  bemoaning  into  sublime  utterances, 
which  constitute  the  sublimest  oration  man  ever 
pronounced,  and  is  contained  in  those  parts  of 
the  poem  reaching  from  chapter  xxvi  to  chap 
ter  xxxi,  inclusive.  I  have  read  this  •  oration, 
recalling  the  occasion  which  produced  it,  and  noted 
the  movement  of  this  aged  orator's  spirit,  and  have 
compared  it  with  Marc  Antony's  funeral  oration 
over  Caesar,  given,  by  common  consent,  the  chi-efest 
place  among  orations  in  the  English  tongue.  For 
that  noble  utterance  my  admiration  is  intense  and 
glowing.  I  answer  to  it  as  waters  to  the  touch  of 
violent  winds ;  and  in  conclusion,  from  compar 
ing  the  orator  Marc  Antony  with  the  orator  Job 
of  Uz,  I  am  compelled  to  confess  that  I  love  not 
Antony  the  less,  but  Job  the  more.  Marc  Antony's 
oration  was  diplomatic,  tragic,  masterful,  pathetic ; 
but  Job's  oration  is  spent  in  the  realm  of  the 
pathetic  and  sublime.  The  theme  is  the  appeal  to 
God.  He  has  turned  from  man  and  toward  God. 
His  thought  swings  in  circles  majestic  as  the  cir 
cuits  of  the  stars.  He  fronts  himself  toward  the 
Eternal  as  if  to  certify,  "To  God  I  make  my  plea." 


360       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

His  harshness  is  kinder  than  the  kindness  of  man. 
Job's  orbit  includes  life.  He  runs  out  to  God, 
but  he  runs  to  God.  Himself  is  point  of  departure 
on  this  long  journey.  This  oration  is  an  apology, 
a  plea  of  a  great  soul,  pleading  for  what  is  above 
life.  The  words  have  pathos,  but  they  lift  to  sub 
lime  heights.  Job  sweeps  on  like  a  rising  tide. 
His  false  comforters  sit  silent,  perplexed,  but 
silenced.  His  argument  rises  as  a  wind,  which  first 
blows  lightly  as  a  child's  breath  on  the  cheek, 
then  lifts  and  sways  the  branches  of  the  trees,  then 
trumpets  like  a  battle  troop,  then  roars  like  storm- 
waves  beating  on  the  rocks,  until  we  hear  naught 
but  Job.  What  begins  an  apology,  ends  a  paean. 
At  first,  he  spoke  as,  "By  your  leave,  sirs."  Later, 
he  seizes  the  occasion;  masses  his  lifetime  of  ex 
perience  and  thought  and  faith  and  attempted 
service;  deploys  his  argument  to  show  how  God's 
wisdom  fills  the  soul's  sky,  as  if  all  stars  had 
coalesced  to  frame  a  regal  sun ;  makes  his  argument 
certify  his  conscious  integrity  in  motive  and  con 
duct,  until  he  thunders  like  a  tempest:  "My  desire 
is  that  the  Almighty  would  answer  me.  I  would 
declare  unto  him  the  number  of  my  steps ;  as  a 
prince  would  I  go  near  unto  him," — and  on  a 
sudden  his  trumpet  tones  sink  into  softness,  and  his 
dilated  frame  stoops  like  a  broken  wall,  and  he 
murmurs,  "The  words  of  Job — are  ended."  Yet  so 
potent  his  self-defense,  that  his  three  comforters 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  361 

sit  silent  as  the  hushed  night.  Their  argument 
is  broken  and  their  lips  are  dry.  The  words  of 
the  comforters,  like  the  words  of  Job,  are  ended. 
Elihu,  a  youth,  has  been  listening.  Age  has 
had  its  hour  and  argument,  and  age  is  silenced, 
when,  like  the  rush  of  a  steed  whose  master  is 
smitten  from  the  saddle,  this  impetuous  youth 
speaks.  At  this  point,  genius  is  evidenced  by  this 
unknown  dramatist.  A  young  man  speaks,  but 
his  are  a  young  man's  words,  hurried,  fitful,  tinc 
tured  with  impertinence,  headlong  in  statement  and 
method ;  for  he  is  youth,  not  experienced,  not  de 
liberate,  and  easily  influenced  by  the  aged  argu 
ment,  and  taking  strong  ground,  and  is  infallible 
in  his  own  eyes ;  and  in  him  are  visible  the  swagger 
and  audacity  of  a  boy.  He  makes  no  contribution 
to  the  argument.  His  is  a  repetitional  statement, 
though  himself  does  not  know  it.  He  thinks  he 
is  original.  How  delightful  the  audacity  of  his 
opening:  "If  thou  canst  answer  me,  set  thy  words 
in  order  before  me.  Stand  up.  Behold,  I  am 
according  to  thy  wish  in  God's  stead."  Clearly 
this  is  a  young  man  speaking.  A  novice  he,  yet 
with  all  the  assurance  of  a  man  whose  years  have 
run  more  than  fourscore.  He  is  bursting  with 
speech  and  impudence,  not  perceiving  that  to 
answer  where  old  men  have  failed  is  a  valorous 
task,  to  say  the  least;  and  to  attempt  answer  to 
Job,  who  has  unhorsed  every  opponent  in  the  lists, 


362       A  HERO  AND  SOME;  OTHER 

is  a  strong  man's  work;  but  beyond  this,  Elihu 
undertakes  to  answer  for  God.  He  will  be  in 
God's  stead.  See  in  this  a  young  man's  lack  of 
reverence.  What  the  old  men  hesitated  to  attempt, 
knowing  the  work  lay  beyond  their  united  powers, 
this  youth  flings  into  as  he  would  into  a  swelling 
stream,  swollen  by  sudden  rains  among  the  up 
lands.  His  ears  have  been  keen.  Nothing  has 
escaped  him.  All  the  words  of  everybody  he  has 
in  mind,  his  memory  being  perfect,  since  he  is 
young  and  no  faculty  impaired,  and  as  the  debate 
has  proceeded  and  he  has  seen  old  men  overborne 
by  the  old  man  Job,  his  impetuous  youth  has  seen 
how  he  could  answer.  This  is  natural,  as  any  one 
conversant  with  himself  (not  to  go  further  in  in 
vestigation)  must  know.  We  itch  to  reply,  think 
ing  we  see  the  vulnerable  joint  in  the  harness. 
Job  has  spoken  last,  and  silenced  his  adversaries, 
and  Elihu  recalls  practically  but  one  thought  of 
Job's  reply;  namely,  that  he  was  not  unrighteous 
in  intent,  and  gets,  as  most  of  us  do,  but  a  part 
of  the  afflicted  man's  meaning,  and  concludes  that 
Job  is  glaringly  self-righteous,  missing  the  true 
flavor  of  Jab's  answer;  for  what  Job  was,  was 
self-respecting.  And  so  Elihu  gives  Job  a  piece  of 
his  mind;  takes  up  the  thread  of  argument  where 
the  old  men  had  broken  it,  and  drives  on,  with  many 
words  and  few  ideas,  to  prove  Job  is  wrong  and 
bad,  and  that  God  has  simply  meted  out  justice, 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  363 

no  more.  Elihu's  words  fairly  trample  on  each 
other's  heels,  and  though  only  giving  a  weakened 
statement  of  what  had  been  said  before,  like  a 
strong  voice  weakened  by  age,  he  thinks  his  is 
a  sledgehammer  argument,  illuminative,  convinc 
ing,  unanswerable ;  yet  because  he  thinks  he  speaks 
in  God's  behalf  and  in  God's  stead,  he  rises  into 
eloquence  withal,  though  his  words  are  pitiless ; 
for  himself  knows  not  suffering,  nor  can  he  compass 
Job's  calamity.  Elihu  mistakes  the  sight  of  his 
eyes  for  the  truths  of  God,  a  blunder  of  not  in 
frequent  recurrence.  He  is  not  all  wrong,  nor  is 
he  all  wrong  in  his  desire  to  help  to  the  truth,  but 
is  as  a  lad  trying  to  lift  a  mountain,  which,  planted 
by  God,  requires  God  to  uproot  it. 

So  the  drama  sweeps  on.  Jobs  sits  silent,  but 
not  silenced.  He  makes  no  reply  to  Elihu's  in 
vective.  Here  is  a  dignified  silence  more  impress 
ive  than  any  speech.  He  has  been  shot  at  by 
all  the  volleys  of  the  earth  and  sky ;  and,  wounded 
in  every  part,  he  retains  his  faith  in  God;  nay, 
his  faith  is  burning  brightly,  like  a  newly-trimmed 
lamp :  "Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  Him. 
I  am  misconceived  by  man,  but  not  by  God;"  and 
his  face  has  a  strange  light,  as  if  he  had  been 
with  Moses  on  the  mount;  and  when,  in  a  whirl 
wind's  sweep,  and  above  it,  God's  voice  is  heard; 
and  it  is  Job  God  answers,  a:s  if  to  say,  "Yours 
is  the  argument."  God  has  no  controversy  with 


364       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

Elihu,  nor  yet  with  the  aged  counselors.  Them 
he  ignores;  them,  by  and  by,  he  rebukes.  Job, 
and  not  they,  had  been  right.  God  is  come  as 
vindicator.  If  his  voice  thunders  like  tempestuous 
skies,  there  is  to  appear  an  unspeakable  tenderness 
in  it  at  the  last.  He  is  not  come  to  ride  Job 
down,  like  a  charge  of  Bedouin  cavalry.  He  is 
come  to  clear  his  sky.  He  is  come  to  give 
him  vision  and  to  show  him  wisdom,  of  which, 
though  Job  has  spoken,  he  has  had  none  too 
much.  In  the  drama,  God  speaks  in  discussion 
to  two  persons.  In  conversational  tones,  in  the 
prologue  to  the  drama,  he  talks  with  Satan  when 
he  leads  Job  to  trial.  Job's  calamities,  instead 
of  being  a  proof  of  his  turpitude,  are  proof  of  the 
confidence  God  reposes  in  him. 

What  a  revelation  in  character  that  is!  If  for 
a  time  God  had,  as  object-lesson  to  the  Jew  and 
through  him  to  the  world,  granted  visible  rewards 
and  visible  punishments,  that  was  not  the  per 
manent  scheme.  God's  administration  is  hid  from 
vulgar  eyes  truly,  but  also  from  the  eyes  "of  the 
wise  and  prudent."  Man's  wisdom  may  not  vaunt 
itself.  God's  moral  system  is  no  well-lit  room  in 
which  all  furnishings  are  visible ;  rather  a  twilight 
gloom,  where  men  and  women  grope.  We  know 
enough.  Virtue  is  made  very  evident,  and  vice 
very  despicable,  and  God  very  apparent — and 
these  be  the  sufficient  data  for  the  monograph 


THE  DRAMA  OP  JOB  365 

of  life.  "All  things  work  together  for  good  to 
them  that  love  God,"  is  the  far-away  response  to 
Job's  troubled  cry.  God  converses  with  Satan 
long  enough  to  deny  the  allegation  that  Job  serves 
God  as  a  matter  of  dollars  and  cents,  that  it  is 
convenient — so  runs  the  devil's  sneer — convenient 
for  Job  to  be  good ;  for  he  finds  it  profitable.  But 
if  God  will  lower  his  rate  of  profit  in  goodness, 
and  if  God  will  shipwreck  all  Job's  prosperity,  and 
sting  him  with  the  serpent-touch  -of  dire  disease, 
then  will  Job  become  as  others.  Profit  in  good 
ness  gone,  his  goodness  will  "fade  as  doth  a  leaf." 
This  is  evil's  pessimistic  philosophy,  and  Job,  on 
whom  calamitous  circumstances  pile  as  Dagon's 
temple  on  Samson's  head;  Job,  trusting  where  he 
can  not  see,  and  making  his  appeal  to  God,  whose 
ways  are  hid, — is  the  lie  given  to  Satan's  prophe 
cies,  and  the  vindication  of  God's  confidence  in 
Job.  Job  has  been  as  one  sold  into  servitude  for 
a  month.  Satan  hath  been  a  hard  master,  has  thrust 
him  exceeding  sore,  has  given  no  intermission  of 
peril  or  anguish,  has  crowded  sorrow  on  sorrow, 
has  snatched  away  every  flower  from  the  field  of 
this  good  man's  life,  and  watches,  leering,  to  hear 
him  say,  "I  will  curse  God  and  die;"  but  when, 
after  arguments  compounded  of  pain  and  tears  and 
hope,  Job  returns  to  his  silence,  saying,  "The  words 
of  Job  are  ended,"  Satan  has  witnessed  the  tri 
umph  of  a  good  man,  and  disproof  of  his  own 


366       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI.K 

sorry  accusations,  and  the  vindication  of  God's 
estimate ;  and,  as  is  fitting,  he  stays  not  to  ac 
knowledge  defeat,  but  slips  away  as  the  whirlwind 
chariot  of  Jehovah  dashes  into  sight.  Satan,  not 
Job,  has  been  defeated. 

And  in  the  long  years  of  a  prosperous  life,  no 
confidence  has  been  reposed  in  Job  so  worthy  as 
this  reposed  in  him  of  God,  to  put  to  silence  the 
slanders  of  wickedness  that  goodness  was  a  species 
of  selfishness;  so  that  what  Job  did  not  under 
stand,  and  what  his  friends  interpreted  as  the  cer 
tain  disfavor  of  God,  was  sign  of  the  trust  God 
reposed  in  him.  Satan  had  done  his  worst  on  a 
good  man,  and  had  failed!  What  an  apocalypse 
this  was !  The  second  person  with  whom  God 
holds  conversation  is  Job.  Satan  he  talked  with 
in  conversational  tones,  with  no  state  nor  elo 
quence.  Job  he  honors,  coming  in  regal  splendor, 
by  thundering  with  his  voice,  by  treating  Job  as 
if  he  were  ambassador  for  some  potentate  whom 
God  held  in  high  regard.  God's  argument  is  the  cli 
max  of  sublimity  reached  in  literature ;  is  mountain 
summit  of  sublime  thought  and  utterance.  What 
effect  is  wanting  to  make  this  scene  bewildering 
in  sublimity?  One?  No.  The  auditor  is  Job, 
sitting  in  the  ruin  of  home  and  love,  and  friend 
ships  and  consequence  among  men,  and  good  re 
pute,  and  if,  bending  low,  you  will  hear  him,  you 
shall  know  he  is  sobbing  for  children  that  are  not. 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  367 

One  lonely,  distraught,  mystified,  sorely-be- 
leagured,  and  still  surely-trusting  man, — this  is 
the  audience.  The  scene  is  a  tawny  desert,  once 
sown  to  oases  of  flowers,  and  billowing  grain,  and 
stately  palm-tree,  and  olive-groves,  now  harvest- 
less,  flowerless,  palmless.  Once  a  stately  palace 
rose  beside  a  fountain  here,  and  from  its  open 
doors  ran  genial  hospitality,  to  greet  the  coming 
guest  and  the  wayfayer  overtaken  by  the  night 
and  weariness;  and  from  the  windows  singing  and 
laughter  rose,  like  a  chorus  of  youthful  voices; 
and  now — where  these  things  were  are  only  ruins, 
havoc,  disaster ;  and  Job  sits  amidst  the  desolation 
that  once  was  home  as  if  he  were  crowned  king 
of  the  realm  of  Calamity;  and  the  desert,  tawny 
as  a  tiger's  skin,  stretches  away  to  the  horizon, 
barren  as  the  sea,  than  which  is  nothing  more  soli 
tary  or  pregnant  with  melancholy  and  thought. 

The  sky  is  ample  and  open.  Not  a  cloud  flecks 
it  with  its  foam.  From  desert  line  to  the  blue 
zenith  is  only  bewildering  blue;  when,  black  as 
a  stormy  midnight,  driving  as  if  lightnings  were 
its  chariot  steeds,  comes  the  whirlwind  whereon 
the  Almighty  rides,  and  halts;  atid  God  pitc'hes 
his  midnight  pavilion  in  front  of  silent  Job  on  the 
silent  desert,  and  from  this  tent,  whose  curtains 
are  not  drawn,  there  trumpets  a  voice.  God  is 
come!  And  God  speaks!  "The  Lord  answered 
Job  out  of  the  whirlwind."  Eloquence  like  this 


368       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOI<K 

on  forum  like  this,  literature  knows  nothing  of. 
Sublimity  is  come  to  its  noon. 

"Where  wast  thou  when  I  laid  the  foundation 
of  the  earth?"  is  the  astounding  introductory. 
No  exordium  is  here.  Into  the  thick  of  argument, 
God  leaps  as  a  soldier  might  leap  into  the  midst 
of  furious  battle.  "Whereupon  are  the  foundations 
thereof  fastened?  Or  who  laid  the  corner-stones 
thereof;  when  the  morning  stars  sang  together, 
and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy?  Or  who 
shut  up  the  sea  with  doors,  when  I  made  the  cloud 
the  garment  thereof,  and  set  bars  and  doors,  and 
said,  Hitherto  shalt  thou  come,  but  no  further:  and 
here  shall  thy  proud  waves  be  stayed?  Hast  thou 
commanded  the  morning  since  thy  days;  and 
caused  the  dayspring  to  know  his  place;  that  it 
might  take  hold  of  the  ends  of  the  earth  that  the 
wicked  might  be  shaken  out  of  it?  It  is  changed 
as  clay  under  the  seal ;  and  all  things  stand  forth  as 
a  garment ;  and  from  the  wicked  their  light  is  with- 
holden,  and  the  high  arm  shall  be  broken.  Hast 
thou  entered  into  the  springs  of  the  sea?  Have  the 
gates  of  death  been  opened  unto  thee?  Where  is 
the  way  where  light  dwellerh?  And  as  for  dark 
ness,  where  is  the  place  thereof?  Hast  thou  en 
tered  into  the  treasures  of  the  snow?  By  what 
way  is  the  light  parted,  or  the  east  wind  scattered 
upon  the  earth?  Who  hath  cleft  a  channel  for 
the  waterflood,  or  a  way  for  the  lightning  of  the 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  369 

thunder?  Hath  the  rain  a  father?  or  who  hath 
begotten  the  drops  of  dew?  Canst  thou  bind  the 
cluster  of  the  Pleiades,  or  loose  the  bands  of 
Orion?  Canst  thou  lead  forth  the  signs  of  the 
zodiac  in  their  seasons?  or  canst  thou  guide 
Arcturus  with  his  sons?  Knowest  thou  the  ordi 
nances  of  the  heavens?  Canst  thou  lift  up  thy 
voice  to  the  clouds,  that  abundance  of  waters  may 
cover  thee?  Canst  thou  send  forth  lightnings, 
that  they  may  go,  and  say  unto  thee,  Here  we 
are?  Who  provideth  for  the  raven  his  food,  when 
his  young  ones  cry  unto  God,  and  wander  for  lack 
of  meat?  But  seeing  thou  canst  not  understand 
these  things,  and  they  are  too  high  for  thee,  canst 
thou  understand  some  little  things,  and  answer 
some  trivial  questions  I  will  put  to  thee  ?  Knowest 
thou  the  secret  of  the  wild  goat  or  the  wild  ass 
on  the  desert?  or  the  wild  ox?  or  the  ostrich  that 
scorneth  the  horse  and  his  rider?  or  the  horse, 
hast  thou  given  him  strength?  for  he  paweth  in  the 
valley,  and  leaps  as  a  locust,  and  rejoiceth  in  his 
strength,  and  goeth  out  to  meet  the  armed  men; 
he  mocketh  at  fear,  and  is  not  dismayed,  neither 
turneth  his  back  from  the  sword;  he  smelleth  the 
battle  afar  off.  Doth  the  hawk  soar  by  thy  wis 
dom,  and  stretch  her  wings  toward  the  south? 
Doth  the  eagle  mount  up  at  thy  command,  and 
make  her  nest  on  high?  And  behemoth,  what  of 
him?  His  limbs  are  like  bars  of  iron;  he  is  con- 
24 


370       A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER 

fident,  though  Jordan  swell  even  to  his  mouth. 
Or  leviathan,  what  canst  thou  do  with  him,  and 
what  knowest  thou  of  him?  In  his  neck  abideth 
strength;  his  breath  kindleth  coals;  his  heart  is  as 
firm  as  a  stone;  he  counteth  iron  as  straw,  and 
brass  as  rotten  wood;  and  when  he  raiseth  him 
self  up,  the  mighty  are  afraid.  Hast  thou  an  arm 
like  God?  and  canst  thou  thunder  with  a  voice  like 
him?  Deck  thyself  now  with  excellency  and  dig 
nity,  and  array  thyself  with  honor  and  majesty. 
Pour  forth  the  overflowings  of  thy  anger ;  and  look 
upon  every  one  that  is  proud,  and  abase  him.  Look 
on  every  one  that  is  proud,  and  bring  him  low; 
and  tread  down  the  wicked  where  they  stand,  and 
hide  them  in  the  dust  together." 

And  Job  called,  so  that  his  words  sounded 
through  the  whirlwind's  curtains:  "I  know  that 
Thou  canst  do  all  things,  and  that  no  purpose  of 
Thine  can  be  restrained.  Who  is  this  that  hideth 
counsel  without  knowledge?  Therefore  have  I  ut 
tered  that  which  I  understood  not;  things  too 
wonderful  for  me,  which  I  knew  not.  Wherefore 
I  abhor  myself,  and  repent  in  dust  and  ashes." 
And  Job  Aas  learned  this  salutary  lesson,  that  no 
man  can  comprehend  all  the  ways  life  leads,  nor 
need  to.  God  is  above  the  ways  of  life : 

"He  leads  us  on  by  paths  we  do  not  know; 
Upward  he  leads  us,  though  our  steps  be  slow; 


DRAMA  OP  JOB  371 

Though  oft  we  faint  and  falter  by  the  way; 
Though  clouds  and  darkness  oft  obscure  the  day, 
And  still  He  leads  us  on." 

Job  has  learned  to  rest  his  case  with  God. 

"My  God  knows  best!    Through  all  my  days 

This  is  my  comfort  and  my  rest; 
My  trust,  my  peace,  my  solemn  praise, — 
That  God  knows  all,  and  God  knows  best 

My  God  knows  best!    That  is  my  chart — 
That  thought  to  me  is  always  blest: 

It  hallows  and  it  soothes  my  heart; 
For  all  is  well,  and  God  knows  best. 

My  God  knows  best!    Then  tears  may  fall: 

In  his  great  heart  I  find  my  rest; 
For  he,  my  God,  is  over  all; 

And  he  is  love,  and  he  knows  best." 

God's  argument  is  burned  into  Job's  mind. 
How  can  man,  who  understands  not  the  visible 
things  of  daily  recurrence,  think  to  penetrate  the 
meaning  of  the  moral  universe,  whose  ways  are 
hidden,  like  the  caverns  of  the  seas?  Not  Job, 
nor  any  one  of  those  who  have  spoken,  has 
found  the  clew  to  this  maze.  But  Job  is  im 
pregnable  now  in  his  trust  in  God,  as  if  he  were 
in  a  fortress  whose  approaches  were  guarded  by 
the  angels  of  heaven. 

And  God  spake  yet  once  more ;  and  now  a  word 
of  rebuke — not  argument — to  the  old  men,  who 


372      A  HERO  AND  SOME  OTHER  FOLK 

trembled  near  the  tent  of  God's  whirlwind:  "My 
wrath  is  kindled  against  you:  for  ye  have  not 
spoken  of  me  the  thing  that  is  right,  as  my  se'rvant 
Job  hath.  My  servant  Job  shall  pray  for  you ;  for 
him  I  will  accept."  And  Job,  what  ails  Job  now? 
He  thought  he  was  rebuked  of  God  in  the  Divine 
argument,  and  now  he  knows  himself,  at  a  word, 
vindicated,  exalted ;  honor  burnished,  and  not  tar 
nished;  himself,  not  accused  of  God,  but  beloved 
of  him,  and  praised  by  him, — and  Job  is  weeping 
like  a  little  child ;  and  lifting  up  his  face,  while  the 
tears  rain  down  his  cheeks,  his  eyes  and  his  heart 
and  his  face  are  like  springtime  in  laughte'r,  and 
his  voice  is  as  the  singing  of  a  psalm!  For  "the 
Lord  turned  the  captivity  of  Job." 

How  great  an  advent !  Beauty  this  drama  has ; 
but  beauty  belongs  to  the  rivulet  and  the  twi 
lights;  but  sublimity  to  the  Niagaras,  and  the' 
oceans,  and  the  human  heart,  and  the  words  of 
God.  This  drama  is  sublimity's  self.  Theme, 
actors,  movement,  goal,  pertinency  to  the  deep 
est  needs  of  soul  and  experience,  and  chiefly,  God 
as  protagonist,  say  that  sublimity  belongs  to  this 
drama  as  naturally  as  to  the  prodigious  mountains 
or  to  the  desert  at  night.  "Surely,  God  is  in  this 
place,  and  we  knew  it  not." 

And  Job  ends  as  comedy,  though  it  began  as 
tragedy.  Hamlet  ends  in  tragedy.  He  has  lost 
faith,  and  his  arm  is  palsied.  We  hear  the  musi- 


THE  DRAMA  OF  JOB  373 

cians  of  Fortinbras  playing  a  funeral  dirge. 
Hamlet  was  tragedy  because  God  was  not  there. 
When  God  is  near,  no  tragedy  is  possible'.  God 
is  out  of  Hamlet.  Job  had  closed  as  Job  began, 
with  tragedy  dire  and  utter,  but  that  here  a  man 
refused  to  let  go  of  God.  Job  believed.  He  did 
not  understand.  He  was  sore  pressed.  His  tears 
and  his  anguish  blinded  him  for  an  hour;  but 
where  he  could  not  see,  he  groped,  and  caught 

"God's  right  hand  in  the  darkness, 
And  was  lifted  up  and  strengthened." 

And  God  comes!  and  Job  ends  not  in  funeral 
dirge,  as  it  began,  but  in  laughter  and  the  smiting 
of  silver  cymbals.  A  good  man's  life  has  tragedy, 
but  ends  not  so.  If  he  die,  God  is  at  his  bedside, 
holding  his  hand;  and  when  he  dies,  he  has  good 
hope  and  solemn  joy;  for  he  shall  live  again. 


VOUGHT  C(  ION 

(Earle  G,  Florence  E) 

VINE 


SEP  7    1982 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  U.S. 


V970  00684  8946 


ilflfi 


